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MARIL : IJAbHKIRTSEI-F 



/ 

JOURNAL 

v 

OF 



MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 



TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 



A. D. HALL and G. B. HECKEL. 



THE ONLY COMPLETE ENGLLSH EDITLON. 




chicago and new york: 

Rand, McNally & Company, Publishers. 

1890. 






Copyright 1889, by Rand, McNally & Co. 



lt»ODiiom»M 

i^AilliOTOWJ 



A MEMORIAL. 



In every burning line, Marie, 
I feel thy eager heart, and see, 
As page by page thy thoughts unroll, 
The strong, stern anguish of a soul. 

Thou feltest in thy bosom rage 
The fires of our self-torturing age ; 
Thy heart thou tookest in thy hand, 
And curiously its pulses scanned. 

Beneath youth's flames of high behest, 
Like some slow crater from whose crest 
A beacon flames — grew by degrees, 
The eating fires of fell disease. 

Pain, grief, despair, earth's utter woe, 
Like us, poor girl, thy soul did know; 
And while life called aloud to thee, 
Didst note the o'ershadowing mystery. 

Death spread his pinions from afar, 
And thou didst see them blot and bar 
God's cheerful sunshine, and didst greet, 
With challenge brave, his onset fleet; 

And while his cold, impending wing 
O'ershadowed thee, unfaltering, 
Didst carve on thine own monument 
A name that Death could not prevent. 

Oh, passionate heart! Oh, yearning soul! 
No blank oblivion is thy goal; 
What though we quail, and can not see 
Beyond the veiling mystery? 
(5) 



A MEMORIAL. 



Yet know we life's travail and pain 
Not all a mock, not all in vain; 
And tho' thou sharedst our age's woe, 
Not utterly thy spirit's glow 

Blind Death in Lethe waves could quench. 
Like thee we note the doom, and blench; 
Like thee we choke our sobs to hark 
As children listen in the dark. 



Chicago, December io, 1889. 



G. B. H. 



TRANSLATORS' PREFACE. 



Since Jean Jacques Rousseau published his Confessions, 
probably there has not appeared in literature a personal analy- 
sis so frank, honest, and merciless as this Journal of Marie 
Bashkirtseff. A beautiful, high-born girl, endowed with a 
passionate nature to begin with, thirsting eagerly for life and 
experience, feeling in her nature both the will and the power 
to place her name with the immortals, she received, at the very 
beginning of her career, the cruel arret-de-niort, and under the 
wings of the angel of death, carved, with unfaltering hand, on 
her own monument, a name that will live. 

Her one fear, reiterated in every tone of passionate protest, 
was that, dying, she might be forgotten; and to defeat, in 
advance, the envious assaults of time, she studied, labored, 
suffered, laid bare her very soul for the world's perusal. In her 
own preface she confesses: "This is the thought that has 
always terrified me: To live, to be so filled with ambition, to 
suffer, to weep, to struggle; and, at the end, oblivion! oblivion — 
as if I had never existed!" And so, in order that her name 
may be remembered; that the story of her life may interest 
the curious at least, she takes the world into her woman's 
confidence, and, as she says, tells "everything, everything, 
everything! Otherwise," she adds, "what use were it to 
write?" 

In view of her piteous appeal, and of the fact that to muti- 
late her journal by omissions, would be like cutting the details 
from a picture, the translators have conscientiously endeav- 
ored to render the young artist's thoughts as she wrote them, 

(7) 



8 translators' preface. 

omitting nothing, altering nothing, but aiding her to tell to 

her English, as to her French readers, " everything, everything, 

everything." Besides, there is not a page — it might almost be 

said, not a line — in Marie Bashkirtseffs journal that the reader 

can afford to lose. As it stands, it is an intimate record, 

tracing step by step the unfolding of a unique character; and 

in every word throbs an eager young heart, in every line beat 

the passionate pinions of a woman's soul. Grace to the dead! 

mutilated translations of the journal have been published, but 

the translators of this edition have not found it in their hearts 

to resist the mute pleadings of that stilled voice, and so, with 

the best skill at their command, they have transferred to the 

following pages every thought confided by the author to her 

own journal. 

A. D. Hall, 

" Geo. B. Heckel, 

Translators 
Chicago, January i, 1890. 




AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 



What use is there in posing and deceiving? Well, then, it 
is clear that I have the desire, if not the hope, to remain on 
the earth, through whatever means. If I do not die in my 
youth, I hope to remain as a great artist; but if I die young, I 
wish my journal to be published, and it can not fail to interest. 
But, since I look for publicity, it may be asked, will not the idea 
that I am to be read, spoil, or rather destroy, the only merit 
such a book possesses? I answer frankly, no! In the first 
place, because I wrote for a long time without dreaming of 
readers, and for the rest, the very thought that I hope to be 
read, has made me absolutely sincere. If this book is not 
exact, absolute, strict truth, it has no reason for being. Not 
only do I always put down what I think, but I have never, for 
a single instant, dreamed of dissimulating anything which I 
thought might show me in a ridiculous or disadvantageous 
light. Besides, I find myself too admirable for censure! You 
may, therefore, be certain, indulgent readers, that I display 
myself in these pages at full length. /, as the subject of inter- 
est, may possibly appear slight to you; but forget that it is / — 
think only that it is a human being recounting to you all her 
impressions from childhood up. It will prove very interesting 
as a human document — Ask M. Zola, or M. de Goncourt, or 
Maupassant! My journal begins in my twelfth year, but has 
no significance until I reach fifteen or sixteen. There re- 
mains, therefore, a gap to be filled, so I will write a sort of 
introduction, which will render comprehensible this monument 
of literature and human nature. 

(9) 



10 author's preface. 

Suppose, first of all, that I am illustrious. Let us begin: 

I was born on the nth of November, i860. It is frightful 
merely to write it; but I console myself with the thought that 
when you read me, I shall certainly be no longer of any age 
at all. 

My father was the son of Gen. Paul Gregorievitch Bash- 
kirtseff, a provincial nobleman,, brave, stubborn, unyielding — 
even fierce. My grandfather was raised to the rank of general 
after the Crimean war, I believe. He married a young girl, 
the adopted daughter of a very great nobleman. She died at 
the age of thirty-eight, leaving five children — my father and 
four sisters. 

Mamma was married at twenty-one, after having refused 
several very good offers. She was a Babanine. On the side 
of the Babanines we are of ancient provincial nobility, and 
grandpapa always prided himself on being of Tartar descent, 
dating from the first invasion. Baba and Nina are Tartar 
words — to me it is all nonsense. Grandpapa was a contem- 
porary of Lermontoff, Poushkine, etc. He was a Byronian, a 
poet, soldier, and scholar. He had been to the Caucasus. 
At a very early age he married Mademoiselle Julie Cornelius, 
aged fifteen, a very gentle and pretty girl. They had nine 
children — you will make allowances for the smallness of the 
number! 

After two years of marriage, mamma took her two chil- 
dren and went to live with her parents. I lived almost always 
with grandmamma, who idolized me. Besides grandmamma, 
I had also my aunt to adore me, whenever mamma did not 
(any her off. She was younger than mamma, but not pretty, 
sacrificed by everyone, and always sacrificing herself. 

In May, 1K70, we went abroad, and mamma's long-cherished 
dream was realized. We remained a month at Vienna, intoxi- 
cated by the novelty of everything, the beautiful stores and 
theatres. We reached Baden-Baden in June, at the height of 
the season, in the midst of its Parisian luxury. The party 



author's preface. 11 

comprised grandpapa, mamma, Aunt Romanoff, Dina (my 
first cousin), Paul, and me, and we had with us a doctor — the 
angelic, the incomparable Lucien Walitzky. He was a Pole, 
free from extravagant patriotism, of kindly disposition, and 
winning manners, and spent his entire income on his profes- 
sion. At Achtirka he was district physician. He had been a 
classmate of mamma's brother, at the University, and was 
always regarded as one of the family. At the moment of our 
going abroad, a physician was needed for grandpapa, and 
Walitzky was taken along. At Baden I made my acquaint- 
ance with society and high life, and there I was first troubled 
with vanity. 

But I have not said enough about Russia and myself, which 
are the important topics. After the usual custom of the fam- 
ilies of noblemen living in the country, I had two instruct- 
resses, one Russian and the other French. The first (Russian) 
of whom I have any recollection, was a certain Madame 
Melnikoff, a well-informed woman of the world, of a romantic 
disposition, and separated from her husband. She had made 
herself a teacher, on a sudden impulse, after the reading of 
numerous romances. She was regarded as a friend by the 
entire household, and all treated her as an equal. All the men 
paid her court, and one fine morning, after some romantic 
episode or other, she eloped. The Russians are very romantic. 
She might just as well have bidden us good-bye and gone away 
naturally. My simple-minded and theatrical family fancied that 
her departure would make me ill. During the entire day'they 
watched me with pitying looks, and I believe that grand- 
mamma even made me a special soup, of the kind given to sick 
persons. I felt myself growing pale under such an exhibition 
of sensibility. I was, for the rest, thin, fragile, not at all pretty; 
but all that did not prevent everybody from looking upon me 
as a creature that would, inevitably, absolutely, some day, attain 
the pinnacle of beauty, brilliancy, and splendor. Mamma 
once visited a Jew who told her fortune as follows: "You 



12 author's preface. 

have two children," said he; "the son will be like anyone 
else, but the daughter will be a star!" 

One evening, at the theatre, a gentleman said to me, laugh- 
ingly: 

" Show me your hands, Mademoiselle. Ah! from the style 
in which she is gloved, there is no doubt that she will be a 
terrible coquette." 

I was very proud of this for a long time. Since I began to 
think, since I was three years old (I was not weaned until I 
was three and a half), I have had longings after indescribable 
grandeurs. My dolls were always queens or kings; all my 
thoughts, all the conversations of those surrounding my 
mother seemed always to refer to these grandeurs inevitably 
approaching. 

When I was five, I dressed myself up in mamma's laces, 
with flowers in my hair, and went in the drawing-room to 
dance. I was the famous danseuse, Pepita, and everyone came 
in to see me. Paul was almost nobody, and Dina, though the 
daughter of the beloved Georges, did not put me in the shade. 
Still another incident: When Dina was born, grandmamma 
went and took her unceremoniously from her mother, and kept 
her ever after. That was before I was born. 

After Madame Melnikoff, I had for governess, Mademoiselle 
Sophie Dolgikoff, who was only sixteen — Holy Russia! ! — and 
another, a French woman, called Madame Brenne, who got 
herself up in the style of the Restoration, and had an air of 
extreme sadness, with her pale blue eyes, her fifty years, and 
her consumption. I liked her very much. She taught me 
drawing; and, under her instruction, I made an outline draw- 
ing of a little church. I drew a great deal, and while the 
grown folks had their card parties, I amused myself by draw- 
ing on the card-table. 

Madame Brenne died in the Crimea, in 1868. The little 
Russian, treated like a child of the house, was on the eve of 
marrying a young man whom the doctor had brought home 



author's preface. 13 

with him, and who was known for his numerous" matrimonial 
checkmates. This time everything seemed progressing swim- 
mingly, when, going into her room one evening, I found 
Mademoiselle Sophie, with her nose buried in her pillow, 
weeping desperately. Everyone hurried to the room. 

"What is the matter?" 

At last, after many tears and sobs, the poor child managed 
to say that she could never, never! Then more tears. 

" But why?" 

"Because — because I can not get used to the sight of him!" 

The fiance heard everything from the drawing-room. An 
hour later he strapped up his trunk, sprinkling it with his 
tears, and left. It was his seventeenth matrimonial failure. 

I recall distinctly, her exclamation: "I can not get used to 
the sight of him!" It came so frankly from the heart, and I 
understood very clearly, even then, how truly horrible it would 
be to marry a man to whose appearance one could not grow 
accustomed. 

This brings us back to Baden, in 1870. When the war was 
declared, we marched upon Geneva; I with my heart full of 
bitterness and projects of revenge. Every night before going 
to bed, I whispered this supplementary prayer: 

"Oh, God, grant that I may never have the small-pox, that I 
may be beautiful, that I may have a fine voice, that I may be 
happy in my domestic affairs, and that mamma may live a 
long time!" 

In Geneva, we staid at the Hotel de la Couronne, on the 
shore of the lake. I had a drawing teacher, who brought me 
set designs to copy; little chalets in which the windows were 
drawn to look like trunks of trees, and not at all like real 
windows of real chalets. So I refused to draw them, not 
comprehending how a window could be made like that. 
Then the good man told me to draw the window as it 
looked, frankly after nature. By this time, we had left the Hotel 
de la Couronne, and were living at a family boarding-house, 



14 author's preface. 

where Mont Blanc directly faced us. I copied scrupulously, 
therefore, whatever I saw in Geneva and the lake, and that 
was the end of it, I have forgotten just why. At Baden, 
there had been time to have our portraits made after photo- 
graphs, and the portraits appeared to me overdone and ugly, 
from the efforts to have them look pretty. 

When I am dead, people will read my life, which I myself 
find very remarkable. (Had it been entirely different I should 
probably think the same!) But I hate prefaces (they have 
deterred me from reading many an excellent book) and pub- 
lishers' notices. This is the reason why I wished to write my 
own preface. I might have omitted it, had I published the 
entire book; but I limit myself to beginning at my twelfth 
year, what precedes, being too diffuse. Moreover, in the 
course of the journal, I give you sufficient glimpses of, and 
return frequently to my recollections of the past, a firopos of 
anything or nothing. 

What if I should die suddenly, carried away by some swift 
disease? Probably I should not know that I was in danger; 
they would conceal it from me, and after my death they would 
search among my papers; my journal would be found, and 
after reading it, my family would destroy it, and in a short 
time, of me there would remain nothing — nothing — nothing! 
This is the thought that has always terrified me; to live, to be 
so filled with ambition, to suffer, to weep, to struggle, and, at 
the end, oblivion! oblivion! as if I had never existed. If I 
should not live long enough to win renown, this journal will 
interest the psychologists; for it is curious, at least — the life 
of a woman, traced day by day, without affectation, as if no 
one in the world should ever read it, and yet at the same time 
intended to be read; for I am convinced that I shall be found 
sympathetic — and I tell everything, everything, everything. 
Otherwise, what use were it? Well, it will be very evident that 
I tell everything. 
Paris, May i, 1884. 



The Journal of Marie Bashkirtseff. 



1873. 



Villa of Acqua-Viv 
Promenade des Anglais 



, Nice. \ 



January. Age, twelve years. — Aunt Sophie is playing on the 
piano some airs of Little Russia, and that has recalled to me 
our country. I am carried away by them, and yet, what recol- 
lections can I have of the country, unless they be of poor 
grandmamma? The tears are coming into my eyes; now they 
are there, and just ready to fall; they are falling already. 
Poor grandmamma! how unhappy I am to have you no 
longer with us! How you loved me, and I you; but I was a 
little too young to love you as you deserved. I am deeply 
moved by the recollection. The memory of grandmamma is 
a respected, sacred, beloved memory, but not a living one! 
Oh, my God, grant me happiness in my life, and I shall be 
thankful! But what am I saying ? It seems to me that I am 
placed in this world to be happy. Make me happy, Oh, my 
God! 

Aunt Sophie is still playing, and the sounds coming to me 
at intervals, penetrate my soul. I have no lessons to learn for 
to-morrow, which is Aunt Sophie's birthday. Oh, my God, 
give to me the Duke of H — ! I will love him and make 
him happy, and I shall be happy, too, and will do good to the 
poor. It is a sin to think that one can buy the favor of God 
by good works, but I do not know how to express my meaning. 

(15) 



16 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I love the Duke of H — , and dare not tell him that I love 
him, and even if I should tell him so, he would not care. 
When he was here, I had an object in going out, in dressing — 
but now! — I used to go onto the terrace in the hope of seeing 
him from afar, for an instant, at least. My God, solace my 
affliction! I can pray no more; hear my prayer! Thy grace 
is so infinite, Thy mercy is so great; Thou hast done so much 
for me! It grieves me to see him no more on the Promenade. 
His face was so strikingly distinguished among the vulgar 
faces of Nice. 



Mrs. Howard invited us, yesterday, to spend the day, which 
was Sunday, with her children. We were just about to leave 
when she returned and told us that she had called on mamma 
and asked permission to keep us until evening. We remained, 
and after dinner went into the great parlor, which was 
gloomy, and the girls coaxed me so much to sing. They even 
went down upon their knees — the children, too; we laughed 
heartily. I sang " Santa Lucia," "The Sun is Up," and some 
roulades. They were all so delighted that they hugged me 
terrifically; yes, that is the word. If I could produce the 
same effect upon the public, I would go on the stage this very 
day. 

It is so grand to feel that one is admired for something 
more than one's dress! Truly, I am enraptured with the 
praise of these children. What, then, would it be if I were 
admired by others? 

I am formed for triumphs and emotions; therefore, the best 
thing for me to do is to become a singer. If the good God 
will only preserve, strengthen, and develop my voice for me, then 
I may achieve the triumph for which I thirst. Then I may 
have the satisfaction of being famous, known, admired, and 
in that way I might gain the one I love. If I remain as I am, 
I have little hope that he will ever love me; he does not even 
know of my existence; but when he shall see me in the midst 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 17 

of my glory and triumph — Men are ambitious. And I can be 
received by society, for I shall not be a star out of a tobacco- 
shop or a dirty street. I am noble, and have no need to do 
anything; therefore, I shall have the more glory if I elevate 
myself, and shall find it easier to do so. If I should achieve 
that, my life would be perfect. I dream of glory, of celebrity, 
of being everywhere known. 

When you come upon the stage, to see thousands of people 
awaiting with throbbing hearts the moment when you shall 
sing; to know, as you see them before you, that a single note 
of your voice will bring them all to your feet; to look upon 
them with a disdainful glance (I am capable of anything) — 
that is my dream, that is my life, that is my happiness, that is 
my desire. And then, when I am in the midst of all this, 
Monsignor, the Duke of H — , will come, like the rest, to 
throw himself at my feet; but he shall have a reception differ- 
ent from that of the rest. Dear, you will be dazzled by my 
splendor, and you will love me; you will see my triumph; but, 
indeed, you are worthy of only such a woman as I hope to 
be. I am not homely, I am even pretty; yes, rather pretty; 
I have an exceedingly good form, like a statue; I have fairly 
pretty hair; I have a very becoming coquettish manner; and I 
know how to comport myself with men. 

I am modest, and would never kiss any man except my 
husband, and I can boast, besides, of something that not 
every young girl of from twelve to fourteen years can — of 
never having kissed nor been kissed by anyone. So, when he 
shall see a young girl at the very pinnacle of glory possible for 
a woman to attain, loving him since her childhood with an 
unchangeable love — a girl modest and pure — he will be 
astounded, and will long to win me at any price, and will marry 
me out of very pride. But what am I saying? Why may I 
not admit that he may really love me? Ah, yes, by the help of 
God! God has enabled me to discover the means of gaining 
my beloved — I thank thee, Oh, my God, I thank thee! 
2 



18 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Wednesday, March 14//Z. — This morning I heard the sound of 
wheels in the Rue de France; I looked out and saw the Duke 
of H — , driving a four-in-hand in the direction of the Prome- 
nade. Oh, goodness, if he is here he will take part in the 
pigeon-shooting, in April; I shall certainly go! 



To-day I saw the Duke of H — again. No other has his 
grand air; he carries himself just like a king, when he is 
driving. 

When out walking, I have often seen G — ,* dressed in 
black. She, or rather her make-up, is handsome, and her 
style is perfect — nothing wanting. Everything is so distin- 
guished, rich, and magnificent, that one would really take her 
for a great lady. Naturally, all these things enhance her 
beauty; her house, with its salons, its little alcoves, with the 
soft light coming in through curtains or through green foliage; 
she, herself, decked, robed, got up as carefully as possible, and 
seated in a magnificent drawing-room, where everything is 
accommodated and arranged to set her off to the best advan- 
tage. It is perfectly natural that he should be pleased with 
her and love her. If I had her surroundings, I should be still 
more charming. I should be happy with my husband, for I 
would never grow careless of my appearance. I would adorn 
myself to please him, as carefully as I arrayed myself when I 
wished to win his approval for the first time; indeed, I can not 
understand how it is possible for a man and a woman to love 
each other constantly, and incessantly strive to please each 
other, and then neglect each other after marriage. 

Why should we imagine that, with the pronunciation of the 
word marriage, everything is over with, and there remains only 
a cold and reserved friendship? Why profane marriage by 
picturing the wife in curl-papers, dressed in a wrapper, with 
cold cream on her nose, scheming to get from her husband 
money to pay for her clothes? 

* The duke's mistress. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 19 

Why should a woman be careless before the eyes of the man 
for whom she should most carefully adorn herself? 

I do not see how one could treat her husband as a domestic 
animal, and yet, before marriage, try to please the very same 
man. Why should not one remain always coquettishly attract- 
ive to one's husband, instead of treating him like a mere 
agreeable stranger, with only the difference that one can allow 
no liberties? Is it because they can love each other openly 
without crime, and because marriage is blessed of God? Is it 
because that which is not forbidden does not tempt? or be- 
cause one takes pleasure only in things that are prohibited, 
and which must be concealed? Good heavens, this can not be 
so; I have a very different idea of all that! 

I strain and lower my voice by singing, and so I have vowed 
to God that I will sing no more (a vow that I have broken 
a hundred times) until I begin to take lessons, and I have 
prayed Him to purify, cultivate, and strengthen my voice. In 
order to keep myself from singing, I have added a terrible 
condition — that if I sing, my voice shall be taken from me. It 
is awful, but I will do my best to have this promise kept. 

Wednesday, December $oth. — To-day I wore an antediluvian 
costume; my little petticoat and black velvet casaque, and the 
sleeveless jacket and tunic of Dina's — it makes a good effect. 
I suppose that is because I know how to wear the dress and 
have an elegant figure (I looked like a little old woman). I 
attracted a great deal of attention. I wish I knew why people 
look at me, whether it is because I am comical, or because I 
am pretty. I would give a great deal to anyone that would 
tell me the truth. I should like to ask someone (a young 
man) if I am pretty. Perhaps, I like always to believe good 
things, and, therefore, would rather believe that it is because 
I am pretty. Possibly I delude myself; but if it be a delusion, 
I should prefer to keep it, because it is flattering. What 
would you have? in this world one must turn things to the 
best account — life is so beautiful and so short. 



20 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I form conjectures of what my brother Paul will do when he 
grows up; what profession he will follow — for it is impossible 
that he should pass his life like so many people — conduct him- 
self properly at first, and then throw himself into the society 
of gamblers and loose women, bah! Besides, he has not the 
means, if he had the will. I will write him every Sunday, sen- 
sible letters, not filled with advice; no, but frank and friendly. 
Yes, I think I shall know the tone to take, and, with the help 
of God, I shall have some influence over him, for he must be 
a man. 

I have been so preoccupied that I have almost forgotten 
(What a shame!) the duke's absence. It seems to me that we 
are separated by a profound abyss — especially if we go to 
Russia next summer. It is seriously spoken of. How can I 
believe that he will ever be mine? He thinks no more about 
me than of last winter's snow; I do not exist for him. During 
the winter, while we remain at Nice, I can still hope; but I fear 
that when we start for Russia, all my hopes must vanish — all 
that I dreamed possible will fade away. At the thought of 
losing all this, I feel a dull, steady pain, which is horrible. I 
am passing a moment of the greatest anguish, and my whole 
nature is suffering a change. How strange it is! just now I 
was thinking of the gaiety of the shooting-match, and now 
my mind is filled with the saddest imaginable ideas. 

I am torn by these emotions. Oh, my God, the thought that 
he will never love me, kills me with desolation. I have no 
longer any hope, and was mad to long for things so utterly 
impossible. I wished for too much. But no, I can not abandon 
myself so! What! I dare yield thus to despair? Does not 
God, Who can do everything, watch over me? How dare I 
entertain sueh thoughts? Is He not everywhere, always watch- 
ing over US? To Him all is possible. He is omnipotent; for 
Him there- is neither time nor space. I might be in Peru, and 
the duke in Africa, and if He willed, He could reunite us. 
How could 1, for a minute, think of despairing? How could I, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 21 

for a second, forget His divine goodness? Do I dare to deny 
Him merely because He does not grant at once all my desires? 
No, no! He is more merciful, and will not leave my beautiful 
soul to wound itself with wicked doubts. 

This morning, I pointed out to Mademoiselle Colignon 
(my governess) a charcoal-seller, and said: " Look how 
strongly that man resembles the Duke of H — " She 
answered, laughing, " What a ridiculous notion!" It gave 
me an intense delight to pronounce his name. But I can see 
that if one never speaks to any one of the person one loves, 
the love grows stronger; whereas, if one speaks of him inces- 
santly (which is certainly not my case), the love becomes 
weaker. It is like a flask of spirits: If it is corked, the odor 
is strong; but if it is open, it evaporates. It is exactly so with 
my love; stronger, because I never hear it mentioned. I 
never speak of it myself, and I keep it entirely to myself. 

I am feeling so sad, because I can form no definite idea of 
my future — that is to say: I know what I would like but I do 
not know what I shall have. How gay I was last winter! every- 
thing looked smiling, and 1 was hopeful. I love a shadow which 
I shall possibly never attain. I am so distressed about my gowns 
that I have cried about them. My aunt took me to two dress- 
makers; but they do poor work. I shall write to Paris, for I 
can't wear the gowns they make here; they make me feel too 
wretched. 



Evening, at church; it is the first day of our Holy Week, 
and I said my devotions. 

I confess that there are in our religion, many things that I 
do not like; but it is not for me to reform them. I believe 
in God, in Christ, in the Holy Virgin, and every night I pray 
to God, and I do not wish to concern myself about a few trifles 
which have nothing to do with the true religion, the true 
faith. 

I believe in God, and He is kind to me, and gives me more 



22 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

than I need. Oh, if He would only give me what I long for 
so much! the good God will take pity on me. Though I can, 
if necessary, do without what I ask, I should be so happy 
if the duke would take notice of me, and I should bless 
God. 

I must write his name, for if I never mention it to anyone 
and do not even write it here, I can no longer live. How I do 
chatter on! It solaces the pain if I can at least write it. 



On the Promenade I saw a livery carriage containing a dark- 
complexioned young man, tall and slender. I thought I recog- 
nized a likeness to someone, and uttered an exclamation of 
surprise: " Oh, caro, H — !" They asked, What is it? and I 
said that Mademoiselle Colignon had stepped on my foot. 

He is nothing like his brother; but, nevertheless, I was glad 
to see him. Oh, if I could but make his acquaintance; for, 
through him, I might meet the duke! I love him as my 
brother; I love him because he is the duke's brother. At 
dinner, Walitzky said, suddenly, " H — ." I blushed in confu- 
sion, and walked toward the cupboard; mamma found fault 
with me for my exclamation, saying that my reputation, etc., 
etc., and that it was not proper. I think she suspects some- 
thing, for every time anyone says "H — ," I blush, or abruptly 
leave the room; but she does not scold me. 



They are sitting in the dining-room, calmly talking, in the 
belief that I am busy at my lessons. They do not know what 
is passing in my mind, and have no idea of my thoughts at 
this moment. I must be the Duchess of H — ; that is what I 
long for the most (for God knows how much I love him), or 
else a stage celebrity; but this career does not attract me like 
the other. It is undoubtedly flattering to receive the worship 
of the whole world, from the least individual to the sovereigns 
of the earth; but the other! — yes, I should prefer to have my 
beloved; it is entirely another sort of thing, and I prefer it. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 23 

I would rather be a great lady, a duchess in society, than 
first among the world's celebrities, for in the latter case I 
should be among an entirely different class. 

May 6th. — Mamma, who was ill, had arisen already, and so 
had Mademoiselle C — . It was so fine and fresh after the 
rain; and the trees, with the sun shining on them, were so 
beautiful, that I could not bring myself to study (especially as 
I have plenty of time to-day). I went into the garden and 
placed my chair near the fountain, where I had before me so 
beautiful a picture — for the fountain is surrounded by great 
trees, and one can see neither sky nor landscape. One has in 
view a sort of brooklet, and rocks covered with moss; and all 
around one, trees illuminated by the sun. The turf is green, 
green and soft; truly, I was tempted to roll on it. All this 
formed a sort of grove, so fresh, so soft, so green, so lovely, 
that though I tried hard to fix my mind on study, I could not 
summon an idea. If the villa and garden remain unaltered, 
I shall bring him here to show him the place where I have so 
often thought of him. Last night I prayed to God, I en- 
treated Him, and when I came to the point where I asked that 
I might make the duke's acquaintance, that this might be 
granted me, I cried on my knees. Three times already has He 
heard me and granted my prayers. The first time I asked for 
a game of croquet, and my aunt brought me one from Geneva; 
the second time I asked His aid to learn English; I prayed 
and wept so much, and my imagination was so excited, that it 
seemed to me that I could see an image of the Virgin in the 
corner of the room, who promised me what I wanted. I could 
even recognize the image. 



I have been waiting an hour and a half for Mademoiselle 
Colignon — it is the same thing every day. Mamma blames 
me; she does not know how provoked I am about it. I am 
burning with anger and indignation! Mademoiselle C — makes 
me waste so much time by missing the lessons. 



24 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 

I am thirteen; what will become of me if I waste time now? 

My blood boils and rushes to my head though I am quite 
pale; my cheeks burn, my heart beats, I can not keep quiet; 
restraining the tears which choke me only adds to my misery. 
All that ruins my health, injures my disposition, makes me 
irritable and impatient. Persons leading tranquil lives show 
it in their faces, and I, who am vexed every moment! By rob- 
bing me of my study hours, she mars my whole life! 

With my sixteenth and seventeenth years will come other pur- 
suits, now is the time to study. Fortunately, I was not placed in 
a convent; I would not be one of those little girls who, on com- 
ing out of seclusion, throw themselves wildly into the midst of 
gaieties, believing all that is told them by the fops of the day, 
and finding themselves disillusioned and disappointed in a 
couple of months. I do not wish anyone to think that once 
through studying I shall do nothing but dress and dance; no, 
indeed! Having finished the studies of childhood, I shall 
occupy myself seriously with painting, music, singing. I have 
much talent for all that. What a relief it is to write! I feel 
already more calm. Not only does all that injure my health, 
but also my disposition and my face. That flush which comes 
burns my cheeks like fire, and when calm returns, they are 
neither fresh nor pink. That color ought always to be on my 
face, but I am pale and worn. It is the fault of Mademoiselle 
C — , the agitation she provokes causes that. I even feel 
slight headaches after having burnt like that. Mamma blames 
me; she says it is my fault if I do not speak English. How 
that maddens me! 

If he should ever see this journal I fear he would think it very 
stupid, my declarations of love especially. I have repeated 
them so often that they have lost their meaning. 

Madame Savelieff is dying; she had been unconscious 
and speechless for two days, when we went to see her. In 
her room was old Madame Paton. Glancing toward the bed 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKlRTSEFF. 25 

I could distinguish nothing at first, then I saw the sick one, so 
changed from the strong woman we once knew; her face pale 
and thin, her eyes filmy, her mouth open, her breathing heavy. 
Everyone speaking in whispers, the doctors say she realizes 
nothing; but I believe she hears and understands all, though 
she can give no sign. She moaned when mamma touched 
her. Old Savelieff met us on the stairway; he burst into 
tears, and, taking mamma's hands, said, through his sobs: 
" You are ill yourself, you do not take care of yourself, don't 
you see, poor one!" I kissed him in silence. Then came his 
daughter; she threw herself on the bed, calling to her mother, 
who, for five days, has been lying in that state. To see one's 
mother dying from day to day! 

I went with the old man into another room; how he has aged 
in a few days! The others have some consolation, his daugh- 
ter has her children, but he is alone! To have lived with a 
wife thirty years is something. Has he been happy with her? 
but habit does much. I came back to the sick one many 
times. The nurse is quite disconsolate; it is good to see in 
a servant so much affection for a mistress. The old man 
has become almost childish. 



Ah, when we think how unhappy is man! An animal may 
show the face he pleases, he need not smile if he feels like 
crying, he need not meet his kind if he does not wish; but 
man is the slave of all and everything. 

And yet I inflict all those things upon myself. I love to go 
out and to have others come to see me. 

This is the first time I went against my wish, and how 
often shall I be forced to smile when sad and heavy of heart, 
and to think that of myself I have chosen this life, this worldly 
life! Ah, but then I shall have no more sorrow when I am 
big; when he is with me I shall always be cheerful! 

Madame Savelieff died last night. Mamma and I went 
to see her; many ladies were there. How describe such a 



26 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRT3EFF. 

scene? Grief everywhere, to the right, to the left, above, 
below, grief in the flame of each taper, grief even in the 
atmosphere. All were in tears, Madame Paton, her daughter, 
had a nervous attack. I made her sit by my side, kissed 
her hands, and attempted a few words of consolation; but 
what can one say? Time alone may console! All expres- 
sions seemed insipid and out of place. I said the one to be 
pitied the most was the old man who was left alone! alone!! 
alone!!! Ah, my God! What is to be done? All must come 
to an end I tell her, though that is a theory which would not 
console me if one of mine should die. 

To-day I had a great discussion with my drawing master, 
M. Binsa: I told him I wished to study seriously, to commence 
at the beginning; that what I was doing taught me nothing, 
that it was only a waste of time, and that I wished to commence 
by drawing as early as Monday next. It was not his fault 
that I was not taught properly. He supposed I had taken 
lessons before, and had learned to draw eyes, mouths, etc., and 
yet that sketch they showed him was the first I ever made, 
and all by myself. 



This day is a change from the even, monotonous ones. At 
my lesson I asked Mademoiselle C — an explanation on arith- 
metic . . . She said I should understand without. I told 
her that the things I did not understand ought to be explained 
to me. " There is no ought here," she said to me. " There is 
an ought everywhere," I replied, "Wait a moment, I shall try 
to understand this example before going on to another." It 
provoked her so to find nothing impolite in my words. I was 
speaking very calmly. She steals my time; here are four 
months of my life lost ... It is easy for her to say she 
is sick, but why wrong me? She spoils my f.uture happiness, 
thus robbing me of precious time. Every time I ask for an 
explanation, she answers me rudely. I do not wish to be spoken 
to in that manner; she is irritable on account of her ill-health, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 27 

that makes her unbearable. At times, very much irritated and 
angered, a supernatural calm comes over me. Calm tones from 
me disappoint her, she expects explosions . . " You are 

thirteen years, how dare you?" . . . "Exactly, Mademoiselle, 
as you say, I am thirteen, I wish to b^ addressed accordingly. 
Do not cry, I beg of you!" She went off like a bomb, say- 
ing all sorts of uncivil things, to all of which I answered 
placidly, provoking her the more. " It is the last lesson I give 
you!" " Oh, so much the better!" said I. As she was leaving 
the room I heaved a sigh, as if relieved of a hundred-pound 
weight. I was going, well satisfied, to seek mamma. She ran 
out in the corridor and came back again. I paid no. attention; 
and we walked the length of the corridor to the room together, 
— she in the greatest fury, I with the deepest unconcern — I went 
to my room, while she asked to speak to mamma. 



Last night I had a terrible dream. We were in some strange 
house. I, or someone else, I can not remember, looked out of 
a window. All at once I saw the sun growing so large as to 
cover half the sky, but it was neither bright nor hot. Then it 
came apart, one quarter disappeared, the remainder dividing 
itself into many-colored aureoles; then a cloud half concealed 
it, and everyone exclaimed: " The sun has stopped!" as if 
its natural function was to move. It remained fixed a moment, 
then the whole earth seemed strange; it did not exactly 
quiver. I can not express what it was, for it was unlike any- 
thing that ever could be seen. There are no words to express 
what we do not understand. Then again it commenced to 
turn like two wheels, the one within the other, the bright sun 
being covered part of the time by a cloud of the same form, 
or the bright sun and a dark cloud of the same form being 
alternately seen. There was general consternation. I won- 
dered if the world was coming to an end; but tried to believe 
it would only last an instant. Mamma was not with us. She 
arrived in an omnibus and did not seem frightened. Every- 



28 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

thing was strange, even the omnibus was unlike any other. 
Then I looked around for my dresses; we were packing our 
things in a small trunk. But it is all commencing over again, 
it is the end of the world. I ask myself why God has said 
nothing of it to me, and* wonder that I am worthy of living to 
see this day. Everyone is frightened. We get in the carriage 
with mamma and drive away, I know not where. 

What means this dream? Does it come from God as a pre- 
cursor of some great event, or is it simply nervousness? 

Mademoiselle C — leaves to-morrow. It is rather sad 
after all; parting is always hard, even with a dog that has 
lived with us. In spite of our indifferent relations, I feel a 
gnawing at my heart. 



As we passed the Villa Gioia, the small terrace on the right 
attracted my attention. I remembered how, last year, on my 
way to the races, I saw him there with her. He was looking 
as he always does, imposing and easy at once, sitting with a 
cake in his hand. I recall so well all those trifles. He returned 
my look as we passed. He is the only man mamma ever speaks 
of; she likes him much, and that pleases me. She said: " See 
H — eating cakes; it is all right, he is at home." I did not 
then understand the trepidation which the sight of him caused 
in me. It is only of late that I can explain it, and I remember 
the least details concerning him, the most unimportant words 
spoken by him. 

When Remi told me at the Baden races that he had just 
spoken to the Duke of H — , it gave my heart a shock I did 
not understand, and when, at those same races, la Gioia was 
speaking of him, I could not even listen. What would I not 
give now to have heard every one of her words? Then when I 
would go by the English stores he would look at me with a 
comical expression, as if he meant to say: " What a funny 
little girl? what can she be thinking?" He was right then, I 
did look odd in those little silk dresses; they were ridiculous. I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 29 

would not look at him, but his mere p esence made my heart 
beat so hard it was painful. I wonder if anyone else ever 
experienced that; at times my heart beats so loud I fear it may 
be heard. I used to think the heart was but a lump of flesh, 
but now I know it is related to the mind. I understand now 
the meaning of the expression " My heart beats." I used to 
hear it at the theatre without thinking, but now I feel those 
emotions and I know them well. 

The heart is a lump of flesh connected with the brain by a 
slight cord, the brain in its turn receives the news through the 
eyes and ears, but it is ever the heart which speaks, because 
the cord is touched and agitates it, causing the blood to rush 
to the face. 

How time flies! In the morning I siudy a little; at 2 o'clock 
is piano practice. The Apollo Belvedere which I am copying 
has some resemblance to the duke, the expression particularly 
is very like him, the same way of holding the head, and the 
nose is Hist the same. 



My professor of music, Manote, is well-pleased with me this 
morning. I played a part of Mendelssohn's concerto in Sol 
without one mistake. Yesterday was Trinity Sunday; we 
attended the Russian Church. It was all decorated with 
greens and flowers. Prayers were said in which the priest 
asked forgiveness for our sins, enumerating them all, after- 
ward praying on his knees. His words touched me so I kept 
perfectly still, listening to and echoing the prayer. 

This is the second time I prayed so well in church; the 
other time was on New Year's Day. Mass has become so 
insipid; things said in it are not of every day or of everybody. 
I attend mass, but do not pray. The prayers and hymns sung 
in it call no response from my heart or soul, they hinder 
me from praying in peace, while those " Te Deums " in which 
the priest prays for all, and each one finds his particular 
wants, fill me with devotion! 



30 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Paris. — At last I have found what I longed for without 
knowing it. To live in Paris is indeed to live. I have long 
been a martyr through not understanding what it was I craved 
so much. Now I see plainly I want to move from Nice to 
Paris, have an apartment, furnish it, to keep horses as in Nice, 
to go into society through the Embassador of Russia; there, 
that is what I want! But here is an idea which distresses me, 
I believe I am plain. That is frightful! 

We were at the photographer's, Valeux 9 Rue de Londres; 
there I saw G — 's photograph. How beautiful she is! but ten 
years from now she will be old. In ten years I shall be a big 
girl. I would be more beautiful if I were taller. I sat eight 
times. The photographer said: "If I succeed this time I 
shall be satisfied. ,, We went away without learning the 
result. 

After our last errand in the city we returned just in time to 
leave. 

A storm is raging, the lightning is terrible; at times it 
strikes in the distance and leaves a thin, silvery trace in the 
sky like a Roman candle. 

Nice. — I look upon Nice as an exile. I must think of regu- 
lating the days and hours of my professors. Monday I shall 
resume the studies so viciously interrupted by Mademoiselle 
C— 

With the winter will come society, and with society, pleas- 
ures. It will no more be Nice, but a small Paris, and the 
races! Nice has its bright side, but for all that the next six 
or seven months seem to me like an ocean which I must cross, 
never for a moment losing sight of the light which. is my 
guide. I do not even hope to reach the farther shore, I only 
pray for a sight of that land that alone will give me character 
and strength to live till next year, and then, what next! — 
Indeed, I know nothing of it! — but I hope, I believe in 
God, in His divine kindness, that is why I do not lose 
courage. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 3i 

"He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High 
shall abide in the shadow of the Almighty. He shall cover 
thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou trust; 
His truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be 
afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by 
day." 

I can not express how moved I am and how much I 
acknowledge God's goodness to me. 

Mamma was lying down and we all around her, when the 
doctor, returning from the Patons, told us Abra Murrich was 
dead. It is strange, incredible, terrifying. I can not believe 
he is dead. Charming and amiable people can not die. It 
seems to me that winter will bring him back to us in his 
famous pelisse and plaid. Death is horrible! I am really much 
grieved over his death. Such persons as the G — 's and the 
S — 's may live on, while a young man like Abra Morrich dies! 
Every lady is mourning over it; even Dina allowed an excla- 
mation to escape her. I must hasten to write to Helen 
Howard. Every one was in my room when the sad news came. 

June gth. — I have commenced drawing. I feel tired, 
limp, unable to work. Summer in Nice is killing. There is 
no one; I am inclined to cry; in a word, I am suffering. We 
have but one life to live; to spend a summer in Nice is to lose 
half of it. I am crying now, here is a tear on my paper; 
oh, if mamma and the others knew how I feel about staying 
here they would not keep me in this frightful desert. 

Nothing here reminds me of him, it is so long since I have 
heard of him. He seems dead to me. Besides, I am as in a 
mist — the past I can scarcely recall, the present appears hide- 
ous! I am quite changed; my voice is hoarse; I am plain, I 
used to awaken fresh and pink; but what is it that gnaws at 
me thus? What has happened, what will happen to me? 

We have rented the Villa Bacchi. To say the truth, it is 
enormously hard to live there. For the bourgeois it is well 
enough, but for us — / am an aristocrat. I prefer the ruined 



32 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

gentleman to the wealthy bourgeois. I find more charm in old 
satins, tarnished gildings, antique pillars and ornaments, than 
in trimmings, rich, gaudy, and flaring. A true gentleman 
will not pride himself on having shining boots and well-fitting 
gloves, not that appearance ought to be neglected, but there 
is so much difference between the carelessness of an aristocrat 
and that of a bourgeois! 



We are going to leave this apartment. I am very sorry, not 
because it is commodious and handsome, but because it is an 
old friend to me, I am used to it. When I think I shall 
no more behold my dear study! I have thought of him so 
often here. This table, on which I am leaning, and where I 
have been waiting every day for all that my soul holds sweet and 
sacred! These walls my eyes have so longed to pierce, so they 
could wander far away. In each flower of the wall-paper I 
would see him! How many scenes I have dreamed in this 
study, where he filled the principal part. It seems to me 
there is not one thing in the world that I have not thought of 
in this little room, from the most simple to the most fantastic. 

The first part of the evening Paul, Dina, and I spent 
together, then I was left alone. The moonlight was streaming 
in my room, so I did not light the candles. Going out upon 
the terrace I heard some distant sounds from the violin, guitar, 
and flute. I hurried back into my room and sat at the window 
where I could best hear. It was a beautiful trio. I had not 
for a long time listened to music with so much pleasure. At 
a concert we are more occupied with examining the audience 
than with listening; but, to-night, all alone in the moonlight, I 
devoured, if I may thus express myself, this serenade these 
young Nicenes were giving us. They are most kind. Unfort- 
unately, the young men of the day do not care any more for 
such amusement, they prefer spending their time in the cafes 
cliantiuits, whilst music . . . What in the world is there 
more beautiful than a serenade sung as in ancient Spain? 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 33 

Upon my word, next to my horses, I would spend my life 
under the window of my love, and finally at her feet. 

I wish I had a horse, oh, so much! Mamma and my aunt 
both promised me one. At night I walked softly into mam- 
ma's room, and, while full of enthusiasm, made her promise 
seriously. I am going to bed very happy. Everyone tells me 
I am pretty; truly I myself do not believe it. My pen will 
not write it. I am winning only, pretty at times — I am happy! 



I am going to have a horse! Was there ever seen such a 
little girl as I am with a race horse? I shall be the rage. 
What color will my jockey wear? Grey or iris? No, green 
and pale pink. A horse, my own! How happy I am! What 
a girl I am! Why not let my overflowing cup run in that of 
some poor one who has nothing? . . . Mamma gives me 
money, I shall give half to the poor. 

I have been arranging my room again; it looks better with- 
out the center-table. I have taken out of a box, long since 
forgotten, several knick-knacks, an inkstand, a pen, and two 
old traveling candle-sticks. 

The world is my life; it beckons me, it waits for me. I 
would like to run after it. I am not yet old enough to go out 
in it, but I long to be there, though not through marriage. I 
only wish mamma and my aunt would shake off their lazi- 
ness. Not the world of Nice, but of Petersburg, London, 
Paris; there I shall breathe at ease, for the annoyances of 
society are my delight. 

Paul has no taste yet; he does not understand the beauty of 
women. I have heard him exclaim "beautiful!" of some who 
were actually ugly! I must teach him manners and ideas. I 
have not yet much influence over him, but I hope with time. 
. . . At present I communicate to him in an almost imper- 
ceptible manner my way of seeing things. I give him senti- 
ments of the deepest morality under a frivolous disguise; 

3 



34 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

it amuses one, and is the best way. If he marries, he will love 
his wife, his wife only. Well, I hope, God willing, to teach 
him good principles. 

Tuesday, July 29th. — We are on our way to Vienna; the 
departure was very cheerful, considering, I being, as usual, 
the life of the party. 

From Milan the country is beautiful, so green, so level, that 
our eyes may wander indefinitely without fear of a mountain 
looming up like a wall to block up the view. 

At the Austrian frontier I was dressing hurriedly, when the 
door was opened, and the doctor sprinkled some powder over 
us as a preventive against the epidemic (which I dare not 
name*). I went back to sleep again until 11 o'clock. I hardly 
dared open my eyes. What verdure, what trees, what cleanly 
houses, what charming German girls, what well-cultivated 
fields! It is ravishing, delightful, superb! I am not at all, as 
they say, insensible to the beauties of Nature, but quite the 
contrary Naturally, I do not admire dry rocks, pale olive 
trees, dead scenery; but I love mountains covered with trees, 
plains, delightfully cultivated, or covered with a velvet carpet, 
peasants, women, scenery! I was never tired of looking out 
of the window and admiring. The express goes fast, every- 
thing passes, everything flies, and it is all so beautiful; that 
is what I admire with all my heart. At 8 I sat down, all 
tired out. At the station some little German girls screamed 
at us: u Frisch Wasser! Frisch Wasser!" Dina has a head- 
ache. 

By the way, I often try to find out what it is that faces me, 
yet hides itself so well — truth, in a word. For all I think, all 
I feel, is merely on the surface. Well, I do not know, it seems 
as if there was nothing. As, for instance, when I see • the 
duke, I know not whether I hate or adore him. I wish to see 
into my soul, but can not do so. When I have some difficult 
problem to solve, I think, I commence, it seems to me I have 

* The cholera. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 35 

it; but just at the moment when I try to gather my ideas, it 
all goes from me, all is lost, and my thoughts fly so far I am 
amazed, and understand nothing. All I say is not from my 
inner self, I have none yet. I only live on the surface. To 
remain or to go, to have or to be denied, is all the same to 
me. My vexations, my joys, my sorrows do not exist. If I 
just think of my mother, or of H — , love enters my brain. 
And yet, not the latter, surely. It appears so incredible that 
I only dream of him while in the clouds. I understand 
nothing. 



Some say that a husband and wife may seek outside amuse- 
ments and yet love each other. 

It is false, they do not love; for instance, see a young man 
and a young woman in love with each other, do they think of 
anyone else? They love, and find enough enjoyment in each 
other's company. 

One single thought, one single look for another, proves that 
we love no more the one we once loved; for, I repeat it, if you 
are in love with one, how can you think of loving another? 
Well, then, what avail jealousy and reproaches? You weep 
some, and then console yourself as for the dead, thinking that 
it could not be helped. With one person in your heart, there 
is no room for another; but as soon as it is vacant another 
may take entire possession without much exertion. 

Written in the margin under date March, 1875. — I reasoned 
quite wisely then; it is plainly seen I was a child. Those 
words " love " occur often — Poor me! there are errors in my 
French, everything would have to be corrected. I believe I 
write better now, but not as I would wish yet. 

In whose hands will this journal fall? Up to' the present it 
can interest no one but myself and my relatives. 

I wish I could become such a person that my journal would 
be interesting to all. In the meantime, I write for myself. 
Will it not be a beautiful thing to review all my own life? 



36 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF. 

Friday, August 29th. — This morning I went to the fruit- 
market with the princess. She beat the merchants down, while 
I gave what was asked. I only go once in a while; why should 
I bargain? I gave a few sous to the children. Heavens! 
what joy it caused. They looked upon me as a Providence. 
I do not bargain and I give sous. One woman said: "How 
lovely you are!" Oh, if God would only look kindly upon me! 

I come in the house, everyone looks at me — envies me. I 
have commenced to arrange my study hours — will finish to-mor- 
row. Nine hours a day! Oh, God, grant me courage and 
energy to work! I have some, but want still more. 

September 2d. — The drawing master has come; I gave him a 
list so he would send me some professors from the Lyceum. 
At last I shall commence work. I have already lost four 
months on account of Mademoiselle Colignon, and the jour- 
ney — enormous loss! 

Binsa addressed himself to the censor, who asks for a day. 
Seeing the note I gave him, he inquired: "How old is the 
young girl who is to study all this, and who can plan such a 
programme?" That stupid Binsa answered: " Fifteen years." 
I scolded him enough for it; but I am mad, furious! Why say 
1 am fifteen? It is false. He excuses himself by pretending 
that, according to my powers of reasoning, I am twenty; that 
he thought he was doing well in putting on two years more; 
that he did not think, etc., etc. I charged him to-day at din- 
ner to tell the censor my correct age. / demanded it! 

Friday \ September njt/i. — I preserve my good-humor through 
everything. I must not be saddened with regrets. Life is so 
short it is best to laugh as long as we can. Tears come soon 
enough of themselves. Let us avoid them when we may. 
There are sorrows which can not be evaded, such as death 
or separation; but even the latter maybe sweet if we only have 
hope. But the nonsense of allowing petty annoyances to 
spoil life. I pay no attention to those trifles, nor do I shrink 
from everyday ennuis, I meet them with smiles. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 37 

Saturday, September 2ot/i. — Scalkiopoff has been here. I 
do not remember how it came about, but he says that men are 
degenerated monkeys. He is a young one with old ideas. 
"Then," I said to him, "you do not believe in God?" His 
answer was: "I can not believe in what I do not under- 
stand." 

Oh, the stupid thing! All those youths who are beginning 
to grow a mustache think that way. They are little donkeys 
who think that women can not reason or understand. 
They look upon them as dolls who speak without knowing 
what they say. They let them have their say in a patronizing 
way. I said all that to him, with the exception of stupid and 
donkey. He, very likely, has been reading some books he does 
not understand, and quotes from them. He tries to prove that 
God could not have been the Creator because fossils and 
frozen plants have been found at the poles. So, those lived 
once, and now there is nothing. 

I have nothing to say to that, but was not this earth dis- 
turbed with divers revolutions before the creation of man? 
We do not believe in the literal meaning of the, six days in 
which God created the world. Elements shaped themselves 
through centuries, and centuries, and centuries. 

But God is. Who can deny it, seeing the sky, trees, and man 
himself. Is it not plainly seen that the hand which guides, 
chastises, and rewards is that of God? 

Monday, October i$t/i. — I was studying my lesson when lit- 
tle Heder, my English governess, said to me: "Do you know 
the duke is to marry the Duchess M — ?" 

I brought the book nearer my burning face. I felt as if a 
sharp knife had been thrust through my bosom. I was 
trembling so I could scarcely hold the book; I was afraid to 
faint, the book saved me. I pretended to look for something 
for a few minutes while composing myself. I was reciting 
my lesson in a choked voice; my breath was quivering; I gath- 
ered my courage as once before when I had to jump from the 



38 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

bridge, at the baths, and said I must conquer myself! I wrote 
a dictation so as not to have to speak. 

I went to the piano and tried to play; my fingers were stiff 
and cold. The princess asked me to go and teach her croquet; 
with pleasure, I replied, cheerfully; but with my voice and 
breathing tremulous. The carriage arrived, I ran to get 
ready; I wore my green dress; my hair is the color of gold; 
I am white and pink, pretty as an angel or as a woman. 
We started; the G — house was open; there were workmen, 
masons, who seemed experts to me; she has gone . . . 
where? To Russia, I suppose, to make a fortune. 

One thought was ever before me — he was going to marry! Is 
it possible! I was unhappy, not as formerly, when grieving over 
the wall-paper of one room or the furniture of another; but 
truly miserable! 

I did not know how to tell the princess that he is going to 
marry (they will know it soon and better I should tell her 
myself). 

I chose a moment when she was sitting on a sofa, the light 
behind, my face could not be seen. "Do you know the news, 
princess? (We spoke Russian.) The Duke of H — is about to 
marry" — at last I had said it . . . without blushing, per- 
fectly calm; but what I felt in my inner self ! ! ! 

Ever since that minx told me of that horrible news, I feel 
out of breath, as if I had been running a whole hour, and the 
same feeling makes my heart beat painfully. 

I played the piano with a will, but half way through the 
piece my fingers weakened and I had to lean against the back 
of the chair. I commenced over again — same story — for five 
minutes, at the least; I tried again and again. Something came 
up in my throat which prevented respiration. Ten times I 
jumped from the piano to the balcony. What a state to be in! 



We are going out, but Nice is no more Nice, nor G — , 
either. The view of her villa affects me no more. All that 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRT S£FF. 39 

relates to the duke and that is why my heart breaks at the 
sight of those two empty houses! He was all that attached 
me to Nice. I hate it now, and can hardly bear it. Je m 
ennuie! Oh je niennuie? 

Mon dme reveuse 
Ne songe, qu a lui 
ye suis malheureuse 
Uespoir a fui. 

My God, save me from unhappiness! My God, forgive my 
sins, spare me! It is all, all over; my face turns purple as I 
think it is all ended. I am a-weary! Ah, I am a-weary! My 
dreamy soul thinks but of him. I am unhappy — hope has fled. 



I am happy to-day; the terrible news has not been repeated 
and I prefer ignorance to sad truth, glad to believe it could 
not be true! 

Friday, October 17th. — I was playing the piano when the 
papers were brought in; I take up the Galignani s Messenger 
and the first lines which strike my eyes are about the marriage 
of the Duke of H — . 

The paper did not fall from my hands, on the contrary it 
remained there as if fixed; I had not strength to stand, but sat 
down and re-read those crushing lines ten times over, to make 
very sure I was not dreaming. Oh, divine charity! What 
did I read? My God! What did I read? That night I could 
not write, I could only throw myself on my knees and weep. 
Mamma came in; to avoid her seeing me thus, I pretended to 
go and see about the tea. And I have to take my Latin lesson! 
Oh, torture! Oh, agony! I can do nothing, I can not rest. 
No words can express what I feel; but what overcomes me, 
maddens me, kills me, is jealousy, envy; it tears me, makes 
me wild, mad! If I only could show it! But I must dissemble 
and be calm, which makes me all the more miserable. 

When champagne is uncorked, it bubbles, then grows still, 
but it only bubbles and does not become still if the cork is 



40 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

but half removed . . . No, that comparison is not correct. 
I suffer, I am broken down! 

I shall probably forget in time. To say my sorrow will be 
eternal would be ridiculous, nothing is eternal! But the fact 
remains that just now I can think of nothing else. He does 
not marry, they marry him. It is a plot of his mother's, 
(i 880. All that for a man I had seen a dozen times on the street, 
whom I did not know, and who did not suspect my existence?) 
Oh, I hate him! I do not wish — I do wish to see him with 
her! They are at Baden, the Baden I loved so well. Those 
walks where I used to see him, those kiosks, those stores . . 
{Re-read all this in 1880; it does not affect me at all any more?) 
To-day I must alter my prayers in all that related to him, I 
will not any more ask that I may be his wife . . . 

To part with that prayer seems impossible, killing! I cry 
like a fool. Come! come! my dear, let us be reasonable. 

It is over, ah, well, it is over! I see now we do not do as we 
wish. 

Let me prepare for the anguish of changing the prayer. 
Oh, it is the most cruel feeling in the world, it is the end of 
all! Amen! 

Saturday, October iSth. — I said my prayers, omitting the 
prayer for him and for all. I felt as if my heart was being 
torn, as if I could see a beloved dead taken away in his coffin. 
As long as the coffin is there we are sorrowful, but not yet as 
much as when we feel the void everywhere. 

I see that he was the soul of my prayer, for now it is calm, 
cold reasoning, while before it was quick, passionate, burning! 
He is dead to me and the coffin has been removed. It was a 
weeping sorrow, now it is a hard, aching pain. His will be 
done. I used to waft signs of the cross in all directions for 
him, not knowing where he was. I did not do so to-day, and 
my heart throbs painfully. I am a strange creature, no one 
suffers as I do, and yet I live, sing, and write. How I have 
changed since the thirteenth of October — fatal day! Suffering 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 41 

is stamped on my face. His name is no longer a beneficial 
warmth, but a burning fire; a reproach, an awakening of jeal- 
ousy, of sadness. It is the greatest misfortune which can 
befall a woman. I know what it is — sad mockery! 

I must commence to think seriously. How I wish I could 
sing well! But what matters it now? 

He was as a light to my soul, and that light has gone out. 
It is dark, dreary, sad, I know not which way to turn. Before 
this, in my slight annoyances, I could always find some ray of 
comfort, some light to guide and give me strength; but now, 
wherever I may seek, look around, and feel, I find nothing 
but void and darkness. It is terrible! terrible! when there is 
nothing in the depth of your soul! 

Tuesday, October 21st. — When we came in it was already 
dinner time, and we received some chiding from mamma for 
having eaten before dinner. Our charming family interior 

1 was disturbed. Paul was scolded by mamma, grandpapa 

I interfered — he always meddles, thus teaching him disrespect 
for mamma. Paul went away grumbling, like a servant. I 
followed grandpapa into the corridor and begged of him to 
interfere no more with mamma's authority, but let her do as 

! she pleases, for it is a crime to prejudice children against their 
parents, just through want of tact. Grandpapa commenced to 
cry, that made me laugh;, all these wrangles amuse me at first, 

, then I feel sorry for those poor unfortunates who, having no 
real sorrows, make martyrs of themselves for want of some- 
thing to do. Heavens! if I were only ten years older! If I 
were free; but what can one do when bound hands and feet 
with aunts, grandpapa, lessons, governesses, family? My grief is 
not sharp and mad any more. Without having weakened, it is 
more slow, calm, and reasoning. 

No, no! Nothing is left me but remembrance. If I should 
lose that I would be very unhappy. 

I speak in such a flowery style, it becomes stupid, and to 
think I have never spoken to him. I have seen him ten or 



; 



42 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

fifteen times, often from a distance or from the carriage; but 
I have heard his voice and I shall never forget it! The more I 
say, the more I want to say; yet, I can not write all I feel. I 
am like those unfortunate artists who conceive a picture above 
their capacity to execute. 

I loved him and I lost him, that is all I can say, and that 
tells the whole story. 

After dinner I sang, and charmed the whole turbulent family. 
Saturday, October 2$th. — Last evening some one knocked at 
my door and told me mamma was very ill. I came down half- 
asleep and found her seated in the dining-room, surrounded 
by troubled faces. I saw she was terribly ill. She wished, 
she said, to see me before dying. I was horror-stricken, but 
succeeded in concealing my feelings. It was a terrible nerv- 
ous attack; never before had it been so strong. They had 
sent for Doctors Keberg and Macari; the servants had all 
been dispatched here and there for medicine. Never could 1 
give you an idea of that terrible night. I remained all that 
time seated in an arm-chair near the window, there being 
many people to do what was necessary; besides, I do not know 
how to nurse the sick. Never have I suffered so! Yes, the 
thirteenth of October I suffered, but in another way. 

For awhile mamma was worse. I could not restrain my 
feelings, and my first thought was to pray. Doctors came and 
went continually; they at last succeeded in removing mamma 
to her own room, we followed and stood beside her bed; but 
there was no improvement. . . . The remembrance of that 
night makes me tremble. The doctors said these attacks were 
always dangerous; but, thank God, at last the danger was 
passed. We then became quieter, but still remained with her. 
As the sea, after a great tempest, becomes calm and seemingly 
frozen, so we were all. To be seated so tranquilly, after such 
great troubles, made it difficult to realize all that had passed. 
Tuesday, October 28///. — Poor mamma is no better. Those 
brutal doctors have applied a blister, which caused her much 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 43 

suffering. The best remedy is fresh water or tea, it is both 
natural and simple. 

If a man is to die, he will die with the care of all the doc- 
tors in the world; if, on the contrary, he is not to die, he will 
live, even if alone and without care. 

Reasoning very calmly, it seems to me better to do without 
the pharmaceutical horrors. Oh, how I wish I were twenty 
years old! I am but a dreamer, without a future, and full of 
ambition. Such is my lot! such is my life! I had planned it 
in my thoughts. In one instant my hopes are dashed away.. 
Although the duke is dead to me, he is ever in my thoughts. 
I am enveloped in clouds; all has become uncertainty, I can 
pray to God no more. 

Paul will do nothing. He is thoughtless and will not study, 
and can not understand why he should do so. It grieves me 

i Oh, God! endow him with wisdom, make him understand 
that he should be studious; inspire him with a little ambition, 

I only a little, just enough to be something. Oh, God! Hear 
my prayer; guide him, protect him from the wicked who 
mislead him. 

A man below my own social position will never please me, 
all persons of the lower classes disgust and annoy me. A poor 
man loses half of himself. He seems little, miserable, and 
looks like a trench-digger. Whilst a rich man, independently 
so, carries himself with a certain ease, an air of pride. Assur- 

lance gives him an air of superiority. I admire in H — that air 
of assurance, capricious, foppish, and cruel. He possesses 
something of Nero. 

Saturday, November St/i. — We should not be seen too often, 

I not even by those who love us. We must keep ourselves at a 
distance, abandon regrets and illusions; by such means we will 
appear better. We always regret what is past or distant, so 

j your friends will wish to see you again, but do not comply 

(immediately with their wishes; make them suffer; but not too 
much. That which costs too much loses value; atter many 



44 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF 

difficulties something better is always expected. Or cause 
them much suffering, more than enough . . . There you 
are queen. 

I believe I am feverish. I am so talkative especially when 
I grieve silently. No one would suspect it. I sing, I laugh, 
and talk; the more unhappy I feel the gayer I appear. 
To-day I can not move my tongue and have eaten next to 
nothing. - 

All I write can never express my feelings; I am stupid, 
foolish, and grievously offended. I imagine I am being 
robbed when they take the duke from me; well, really it is as 
if they appropriated what belongs to me. What a disagreeable 
state! I do not know how to express myself, all words sound 
weak; for a mere nothing I use strong expressions, and then, 
when I wish to speak seriously, I am at a loss. It is as if — No, 
enough! If I continue to draw conclusions and give instances, 
I will never finish; thoughts spring up so fast, become con- 
founded, and end by evaporating. 

Looking at mamma as I would a stranger, just now, I dis- 
covered that she is charming. She is beautiful as the day, 
notwithstanding her many troubles and sufferings. When 
speaking, her voice is low and soft; her manners pretty, 
although simple and natural. 

In all my life I have never seen a person who gave so little 
thought to herself as my mother. She is a perfect child of 
Nature. Should she give more thoughts to her toilet, she would 
be the center of admiration. Say what you will, fine dresses 
count for much; she usually uses odds and ends, or whatever 
she can find. To-day she wore a pretty dress, and upon my 
word she was charming. 

Saturday, November 29///. — I do not have a moment of peace. 
If I could only hide myself far, far away! where no one could 
see me, perhaps then I could recover my peace of mind. I 
feel jealousy, love, envy, deception, wounded self-love, every- 
thing that is hideous in this world. . . . Above all, I feel 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 45 

his loss! I love him! Could I reject all that is in my soul! 
But then, if I do not know what is taking place, I only know 
I am tormented; that something devours me, suffocates me, 
N and all I say does not express the one-hundredth part of what 
I feel. 

My face covered with one hand, while with the other I hold 
my cloak which envelops me entirely, even my head, I remain 
in obscurity, that I may gather my scattered thoughts; I am all 
confused. Poor head! 

One thing troubles me. It is that in a few years I will have 
forgotten and will laugh at myself. 

(1875. Two years have passed. I do not laugh, neither have 
I forgotten!} — All these troubles will appear to me like childish 
affectation. But no, I conjure you, do not forget. When you 
read these lines turn backward, suppose yourself to be at the 
age of thirteen, that you are at Nice, that this is taking place 
at this moment; think that it is a living reality! You will 
understand! You will be happy! 

Sunday, November 30th. — I wish they would marry sooner; 
I am always so; when there is something disagreeable to take 
place, instead of putting it off I prefer to hasten it. To leave 
Paris, I hurried all the others. I knew I must swallow the pill. 
For the same reason I burned with anxiety to arrive at Nice; I 
could wait no longer. The suspense was more terrible than 
the event itself. 



1874. 



Sunday, January \th. — How sweet it is to awake naturally! 
The rising-bell has not yet sounded, and I awake of own 
accord. It is as when on a ship we forget ourselves, and when 
we awake, find we have reached our destination. 

Friday y January 9//1. — Returning from my walk I was say- 
ing to myself, I will not be like those others who are compara- 
tively serious and reserved. I do not understand whence 
comes this seriousness. I ask myself, how do we pass from 
infancy to girlhood? How does it come about? Little by little, 
or in a day? Misfortune or love are the agents that ripen, 
develop, or change. Were I sarcastic, I would say misfortune 
and love are synonymous. I do not say so, for love is what is 
most beautiful in the world. I compare myself to water which 
is frozen in its depths, with the surface alone agitated, for 
nothing. either interests or amuses me in my depths. 

January wih. — To-morrow, the twelfth of January, is New 
Year's eve in Russia, and I am burning with impatience to tell 
my fortune before a mirror. 

Aunt Marie, who has tried it, tells us of some astonishing 
revelations; she saw her husband and many other things not 
yet come to pass; she also claims to have seen many frightful 
and horrible things. Having resolved to try my fortune, I was 
so animated and agitated as the time drew near that I could 
not eat. . . . 

uilf-past eleven that eventful night I locked myself in my 
room, arranged the mirror, and behold! — at last I shall peep 
into the future. For a long time I saw nothing, but little by 
little 1 began to distinguish small figures, not larger than ten 

(40) 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 47 

or twelve centimeters. I saw a multitude of heads covered in 
the most fantastic manner imaginable; toques, wigs, bonnets 
of all sizes, all turning and whirling, Then I distinguished a 
woman in white, bearing a striking resemblance to myself. 
She wore a lace scarf over her head; her arms were resting on 
a table, one hand lightly supporting her chin; her eyes turned 
upward and she disappeared. Then I saw the interior of a 
church, the floor of black and white marble. In the center 
was a group in costume, several sitting or standing, I could 
not well understand. On the left, as if in a mist, were several 
men. One of these was in evening dress and beside him stood 
a bride, but their faces were invisible. 

Another man stood in the center, but his face was also invis- 
ible. Covered heads predominated, and I believe all sorts of 
costumes changing very rapidly. The scenes were very bril- 
liant. Suddenly the frame of the mirror, reflected again and 
again without end, seemed for an instant to assume the shape 
of a coffin, but I soon saw my mistake. You must understand 
that I was very much agitated, expecting every moment to see 
something frightful. To-morrow I will relate this to all my 
friends, for it is all quite strange. I might, no doubt, have seen 
more, but I moved my eyes from the mirror. Thus I have 
begun the year by meeting these costumes and head-coverings, 
which are inexpressibly strange and fantastic. 

Welcome to the Russian year 1874, and farewell to 1873. 

Thursday, June 2\th. — During the entire winter I was una- 
ble to articulate a sound. Fearing I had lost my voice I was 
in despair. When spoken to I could but blush and be silent. 
But at last it is coming back to me — my voice, my treasure, my 
fortune! I receive it with tears in my eyes and humbly return 
thanks to God! . . . Although I bore this in silence I 
nevertheless suffered bitterly. I could not speak of V N ut 
prayed to God and my prayer was heard . . . ..at 
happiness! What pleasure to sing well. We imagine our- 
selves all-powerful; we think ourselves queen. We are happy, 



48 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

proud of our own merits. It is not the pride that gold or a 
title bestows. We feel more than woman — we feel immortal. 
We raise ourselves above this sphere, we ascend to heaven, 
to have everybody who listens to your voice hanging on your 
lips, to electrify, charm, and fill with enthusiasm. You reign 
supreme! Next to true royalty it is this power we should pos- 
sess. The supremacy of beauty ranks lower, for it has not 
power over everybody, but the voice raises man heavenward. 
He floats in a cloud like that in which Venus appeared to 
^Eneas! 

Nice, July ^th. — The young ladies all went to St. Peter's 
Church. I prayed kneeling, my chin resting on my hand, 
which is very white and small; but suddenly remembering 
where I was, I withdrew it, and tried to make myself appear 
plain and penitent. I felt in the same humor as yesterday, and 
had clothed myself in my aunt's dress and bonnet. Coming 
out of the church we saw A — passing in a carriage; he raised 
his miserable Nicene hat. 

As I could not go home in my present humor I led my 
companions to the convent opposite the church, which con- 
nects by a rear door with the house occupied by the Sapog- 
enikoffs. On entering the convent we bring in so much folly 
and joy, that the sanctified atmosphere is troubled; the sisters 
pale and calm, are pleased, and appear from behind every door 
showing faces full of curiosity. The mother superior, who has 
been here forty years, is also seen through her double screen- 
. . . Misery! We afterward went up to the boarders' 
parlor, where I took Sister Therese by force and made her 
dance. She wished to convert me and praised the convent, 
and I, who also wished to convert her, praised the world. We 
are up to our necks in the Catholic religion. Ah, well! 1 can 
now understand how one may have a passion for churches and 
convents. 

Tuesday, July 6th. — Nothing is lost in this world. If we 
cease to love one person, our affections are immediately trans- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 49 

ferred to another, sometimes without our knowledge. If we 
think we love no one, it is a mistake. If the object of our 
affection is not a man, it is a dog or a piece of furniture, 
and we love as strongly, only in another way. Were I in 
love, I should want to be loved as I love. I would suffer 
nothing, not even a word, from someone else. Such love is 
not to be found, therefore I shall never love, for no one will 
ever love me as I can love. 

July \\th. — We have been speaking of Latin, schools, and 
examinations; all this makes me furiously anxious to study, so 
when Brunet comes I never delay him, and I ask him many 
questions about examinations. His instructions are so good 
that after one year of preparation I feel capable of presenting 
myself for the title of " Bachelor of Arts." But more of this 
later. 

I have been studying Latin since February, we are now in 
July. Brunet tells me that in these five months I have done as 
much as is usually accomplished at the Lyceum in three years. 
This is prodigious. Had I lost this year I could never forgive 
myself. Itwould.be the cause of such deep sorrow that I 
should never forget it. 

July \$th. — Last night, returning from the Sapogenikoffs, I 
thus addressed the moon: " Moon, Oh, beautiful moon, let me 
see the one I shall marry before I die!" After this it is said 
you must not utter one word, and you will see your future 
husband. 

What stupidity! I saw in my dream S — and A — , two 
impossibilities. 

I am in a wretched humor, I fail in everything; nothing 
succeeds with me. I shall be punished for my pride and stupid 
arrogance. Read this, good people, and learn. This journal is 
more useful and instructive than all the writings that were, are, 
or will be. It is the life of a woman with all her thoughts and 
her hopes, deceptions, villainies, beauties, sorrows, joys. I am 
not quite a woman yet, but I will be. You may follow me 
4 



50 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

from the cradle to the grave; for the life of a person, an entire 
life without disguise or lies, is always a grand and interesting 
thing. 

Friday, July 16th. — Speaking of the transmigration of love, 
all mine at this moment is centered on Victor, one of my dogs. 
I breakfast with him facing me, his kind, big head on the 
table. 

Let us love dogs, and love dogs only. Men and cats are 
unworthy beings. Nevertheless, a dog is dirty; it looks at you 
with hungry eyes while you eat; its attachment is for food, 
yet I do not feed my dogs and they love me; and Prater, who 
has abandoned me through jealousy for Victor, has gone 
to mamma! And men, do they not also require to be fed, — are 
they not voracious and mercenary? 

I evade my fate; I will not go to Russia, as I would not miss 
the Michael-Angelo Centennial for anything in the world. 
Russia will be as nice next year, but as to the centennial, one 
would have to live a hundred years more, and I have no such 
hope. But, then, if I do not go to Russia, it is that God 
wishes it thus. " All happens for the best" says a Russian 
proverb. " We can not escape our destiny" again says another 
proverb. 

I shall again say to the moon: " Moon, Oh, beautiful moon, 
make me see in my sleep the one I shall marry before I die." 

Saturday, July 17 th. — They say that in Russia the rabble calls 
for communism; to divide and have everything in common. 
Their accursed sect has spread so far and wide that the papers 
are making desperate appeals to society. Will not the fathers 
of families put an end to this infection? Their wish is to 
destroy everything. No more civilization, no more art, no more 
beautiful and great things — simply common material for exist- 
ence. Work is to be done in common. No one will have the 
right to raise himself above the others through any merit he 
may have. They wish to destroy universities, superior teachings, 
that they may reduce Russia to a sort of Lacedemonean eari- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 51 

cature. I hope that God and the emperor will confound them. 
I pray God to preserve my country from those ferocious beasts. 
D — seems impressed with all I say, and is astonished to find 
in me such an intensity concerning life. Speaking of our furni- 
ture, the description of my room nearly threw him off his bal- 
ance. "Why," he cried, "it is a temple! a tale from 'A 
Thousand-and-one-Nights!' We should enter on bended 
knees. It is wonderful, unique, remarkable!" Wishing to 
find out my character, he asked me if I ever plucked the leaves 
from a daisy. — " Yes, frequently, to find out if the dinner is 
good." — "How can it be, a room so poetic, so fairy-like, and 
in such surroundings, to ask the daisy if the chef has made 
the dinner a success? It is inconceivable!" What amuses* 
him is, that I assure him that I have a double heart. I took 
pleasure in astonishing him, and listening to his exclamations 
at such numerous contrasts. I ascended to heaven, and with- 
out any transition whatever, I returned to this earth, and so 
on. I exhibited myself as a person who wished to live and 
amuse herself, but does not suspect the possibility of loving. 
He was surprised, and said that he was afraid of me; that it 
was wonderful, supernatural, frightful! 

What I love best, when there is no one worth being with, is 
solitude. 

My hair in a Psyche knot, somewhat redder than ever. 
My woolen dress of that peculiar white, clinging and graceful; 
a lace scarf around my neck — I resemble a portrait of the first 
empire. To complete the picture, I should be under a tree 
holding a book in my hand. I love to be alone before a 
mirror, that I may admire my hands — they are so white, so 
small, and with a faint pink flush on the palms. 

It may be stupid to praise one's self so much, but writers 
always describe their heroines, and I am my own heroine. It 
would, therefore, be ridiculous to humiliate and lower myself 
through false modesty. We may lower ourselves in words when 
sure of being contradicted, but in writing, everybody would 



5*-? JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

think I was telling the truth, and would believe me homely and 
stupid. That would be absurd! 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, I believe myself to be such a 
treasure that no one is worthy of it, and they who dare raise 
their eyes to this treasure I consider as scarcely worthy of pity. 
In my estimation I am a divinity, and can not imagine how a 
man like G — can expect to please me; I, who could scarcely 
treat a king as an equal. I think, moreover, that this is all 
right. Looking down upon men from such heights, they think 
me charming; it is easy to despise those who are so low, and I 
look at them as a hare looks at a mouse. 

Thursday, July 29///. — We were to start to-day. I under- 
went all the annoyances that accompany a departure — we lose 
our temper, we run, we forget, then we remember, we scream. 
I am all upset and now we speak of remaining until Saturday. 
Uncle Etienne wishes to put it off; he has no courage. What 
a character! 

He intended leaving Russia the beginning of April and 
remained until July. So provoking, we have to stay* Seeing I 
am vexed, and say I will not go at all, they all bow down to 
me, and I am very capricious. 

Monday, August 2d. — After a day of shopping, of seam- 
stresses and dressmakers, of walking and flirting, I put on a 
wrapper and read my good friend Plutarch. 

I possess a gigantic imagination. I dream of the past ages 
of gallantry, without perceiving that I am the most romantic of 
women and that it is unwholesome. I can easily forgive my ado- 
ration for the duke, because he is worthy of me in all respects. 
Tuesday, August 17/A. — I dreamed of the Fronde. I had 
entered into the service of Anne of Austria, who mistrusted 
me. I led her amongst the mutinous people, crying out, 
Long live the Queen! and the multitude repeated after me, 
Long live the Queen! 

Wednesday y August tSM. — The day was passed in admiring 
me. Mamma admires me; Princess G — admires me, telling me 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 53 

continually that I look either like mamma, or like her daughter, 
which is the greatest compliment she can bestow. We think more 
of ourselves than of anyone else. The fact is, I am really pretty. 
At Venice, in the great hall of the Ducal Palace, the painting 
on the ceiling, by Paul Veronese, represents Venus as a tall, 
blonde, fresh-colored woman. I resemble that painting. My 
own photographs can never do me justice — that incomparable 
whiteness, freshness, and delicate coloring, which is my principal 
beauty, is wanting. But if some one annoys me, if I am dis- 
pleased with something, or if I am fatigued, farewell to beauty 
— there is nothing more fragile than I. It is only when I am 
happy and peaceful that I am lovely. 

When tired or angry I am not beautiful, but rather ugly. I 
expand amid happiness as the flowers under the rays of 
the sun. I will be seen in good time, thank heaven! I am 
but beginning what I am to be at twenty years of age. 

Like Hagar in the desert I await and I desire a living soul. 

Paris, Tuesday, August 2^th. — I hope to enter the world, 
that world which I call for so loudly on bended knees, for it is 
my life, my happiness. I begin to live and to try and realize 
my dreams of becoming celebrated; I am already known to 
many people. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I see T 
am pretty. I am pretty, what more do I require? Can I not 
obtain all with that? Oh, God! in giving me a little be mty 
(I say a little, through modesty) it is still too much, coming 
from You. Oh, God! I feel that lam beautiful; I believe I 
shall be successful in all things. Everything smiles on me 
and I am happy, happy, happy! 



The noise of Paris, this hotel as large as a city, with its 
people always walking, talking, reading, smoking, looking, 
makes me dizzy. I love Paris and my heart beats. I wish to 
live faster, still faster, faster. " I have never seen such fever of 
life," said D — , looking at me. It is true, I fear, that this desire 
to live by steam is a forewarning of a short existence. Who 



54 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

knows? There, I am becoming melancholy — no, I do not want 
melancholy. 

Sunday, September 6th. — At the Bois there are so many 
Nicenes that for the moment I seemed to be at Nice. Nice 
is so beautiful in September. I remember last year my morning 
walks with my dogs, the sky so pure, the sea so silvery. Here 
there is neither morning nor night. In the morning the sweep- 
ing and in the evening the innumerable lanterns annoy me. 
I am lost here, I can not distinguish the rising from the setting 
sun; whereas, below, in Nice, we are so well situated; it is like 
a nest, surrounded by those mountains which are neither 
too high nor too sterile. They protect us on three sides with 
a mantle which is graceful and useful. And before us we 
have an immense window, an infinite horizon, always the same 
and always new. I love Nice — Nice is my country. Nice has 
made me grow tall. Nice has given me health and a bright color. 
It is so beautiful. We arise with the morning, we see the sun 
over there to the left, behind the mountains, casting its rays 
over the silver-blue sky so softly, amid the vapors, that we 
choke with joy. Toward noon it is facing us, it is hot, still 
the air is not warm, there is ever that incomparable breeze to 
cool us. Everything seems asleep. The " Promenade " is 
deserted with the exception of two or three Nicenes dozing on 
the benches. Then I breathe, I admire. At night, again 
the sky, the sea, the mountains. But at night it is all black 
or dark blue. When the moon shines, this immense roadway 
in the sea seems like a fish with scales of diamonds, and when 
I am at my window, quiet and alone, with a mirror and two 
candles before me, I have nothing more to desire and humbly 
prostrate myself before God! 

Oh, no, what I would say cannot be understood; it can not 
be understood, because it has not been experienced. No, 
it is not that, it is that I am in despair every time I wish to 
make my feelings understood. It is like a nightmare, when 
we have not the strength to cry out. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 55 

Furthermore, no writing can convey the least idea of real 
life. How express the freshness, the fragrance of memory? 
We may invent, we may create, but we can not copy. What- 
ever we may feel while writing, nothing but ordinary words 
will result — forest, mountain, sky, moon; everybody says it 
alike.- Besides, why all this? What is it to others? Others 
never understand because it is not themselves, but I, I alone, 
understand; I remember, and then the men are not worth the 
trouble we take to explain it to them. Each feels as I do for 
himself. I would like others to feel as I do; but it is 
impossible, they would have to be me. 

My child, my child, leave that alone, you lose yourself in 
these subtleties. You will become crazy if you persist in this, 
as you did formerly about the depths of your inner-self . . . 
There are so many intelligent people! Well, no! I would 
say, that it remains for them to unravel! . . . But no! 
They know how to create, but to unravel — no, no, a hundred 
thousand times no! All that is clear in this, is that I am 
homesick for Nice. 

Monday^ September 6th. — In this state of stupefaction and 
incessant pain, I do not curse life; on the contrary I love it, 
and I find it good to live. Could one believe it? I find every- 
thing good and agreeable, even tears, even pain. I love to 
weep. I love to be in despair. I love to be sad and sorrow- 
ful. I look upon all that as so many diversions, and I love life 
in spite of all. I want to live. It would be cruel to make me 
die when I am so accommodating. I weep, I moan, and at the 
same time it pleases me; no, not that. . . . I do not know 
how to say it. . . . In fact everything in life pleases me. 
I find everything agreeable, and while demanding happiness, I 
find happiness in being miserable. I am no longer myself; my 
body weeps and laments, yet something within me, which is 
stronger than I am, rejoices at it all. It is not that I prefer tears 
to joy ; but, far from cursing life in my moments of despair, I bless 
it, and say to myself: I am unhappy, I lament; still I find life 



56 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

so beautiful that everything appears to me beautiful and happy, 
and I wish to live. Apparently that something which rules 
me, which so rejoiced in weeping, has deserted me this even- 
ing, for I feel very unhappy. 



I have never yet harmed anyone, but I have been already 
offended, calumniated, humiliated. How can I love men? I 
detest them, but God will not permit me to hate. God has for- 
saken me; God is trying me. Ah, well, if He is but trying me, 
He should cease those trials! He sees how I take it. I do not 
hide my sufferings under the mask of a cowardly hypocrisy, as 
the rogue Job, who, while mincing to our Lord, made Him his 
dupe. 



One thing pains me more than all else. It is not the col- 
lapse of all my plans, but the regret which this series of mis- 
fortunes causes me. Not for myself — I do not know if I will 
be understood — because it pains me to see stains accumulate 
on a white gown which should have been kept spotless. 

Each little sorrow wrings my heart. Not from self-love, but 
from pity, for each pang of sorrow is like a drop of ink falling 
into a glass of water, it can never be effaced and joined to its 
predecessors, but it turns the glass of clear water to a black 
and dirty grey. You may add more water, still the liquid re- 
mains impure. It wrings my heart because each time it leaves 
a stain on my life, in my soul. Do we not always feel a pro- 
found sorrow when we see something irreparable, even if 
insignificant in itself? 

Thursday, September gt/i. — We are at Marseilles; the money 
has not come. My aunt has gone to pledge her diamonds, 
that I may not be delayed. 

I feel nearer to Nice, to my city, for whatever I may say it is 
my city. I shall be at rest only when at Florence with all my 
finery. I have had my dress and hat brushed, and await my 
aunt to visit the city. I bought a novel; I do not remember at 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 57 

which station. It was so badly written, that, fearing to spoil 
my style, which is already bad enough, I threw it out of the 
window and returned to my Herodotus, that I will read this 
instant. 

Oh, what a beautiful result! Poor aunt! I throw myself at 
her feet. Where had she been? What people had she seen? 
And all for me! Not wishing to ask the coachman where to 
find the Mont-de-Piete, she asked him for the place where dia- 
monds are stored for safety. We laughed together about this 
place where diamonds are kept. At 1 o'clock we leave this 
city which has so many bad odors. 

From Antebes I made myself hoarse singing Nicene songs, 
to the great astonishment of the employes at the stations. 
The nearer we came, the greater my impatience. 



Here it is, that Mediterranean for which I sighed! Its black 
trees; and just now the moon is lighting up this roadway in 
the sea. 

Perfect calm. No noise of carriage-wheel, nor perpetual 
movement of men, who, from my window at the Grand Hotel, 
appeared like midgets. Calm, silence, obscurity, dimly lighted 
by the moon from behind the clouds, and but a few lanterns 
following one the other. 

I enter my chamber — my dressing-room — I open the window 
that I may see the chateau, always the same; the clock struck. 
I do not remember the hour and my heart was oppressed with 
sadness. 

Ah, I may well call this year the year of sighs! I am a little 
tired, but I love Nice! I love Nice! 

Friday, September 10th. — [Journey to Florence.) The mos- 
quitoes awoke me ten times in the night. I awakened a little 
pale but comfortable. Ah, the English know well the meaning 
of the word " Home." Be it what it may, home is the most 
agreeable place. It depends neither on its comfort nor richness. 
Look at our house, with everything upside down, scantily 



58 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

furnished; disorder, desolation reigns; and still, there I am con- 
tented. It is because it is my home, my home, my home! 

I do not even think of my dresses. I am pleased with 
everything. Oh, Nice! I did not expect to ever see it with 
such transports of joy. Had I been heard railing at it and 
cursing it from the time. I left Marseilles, one would have said 
I detested it. It is my usual way to speak unkindly of the 
people and the things that I love. 

I walked about the Promenade silently, pale as a shadow, 
recalling my scattered reminiscences. Nice, for me, is the 
Promenade des Anglais. Each house, each tree, each tele- 
graph-pole is a good or bad souvenir, lovely or ordinary. It is 
like coming back from Spa, Ostend, or London. Everything 
is similar, even to the smell of the wood noticeable in new 
furniture. 

I went up to my room, arranged my hair in the Empire 
style, and donned my white dress — the dress of the portrait. It 
is a long dress like that of statues, with the sleeves turned back 
above the elbows, cut low and round in front, also a little down 
in the back, enough to show the neck, with a broad band of 
Valenciennes lace falling over. The floating draperies caught 
at the waist by a ribbon, and on the breast two other ribbons 
looped and tied in front into a simple knot. No gloves nor 
jewelry. I am enchanted with myself. Under this white stuff, 
my white arms — oh, so white! lam pretty. I am animated. 
Oh, am I really at Nice? 

Sunday, September 12th. — Night at Florence. The city ap- 
pears mediocre, but the animation is great. At every street- 
corner, water-melons in slices, are offered for sale. Those 
water-melons, so red and so fresh, tempted me greatly. Our 
window fronts on the square and on the Arno. A programme 
of the fetes was brought to me, this being the first day. I ex- 
pected my cousin, Victor Emmanuel, would improve the occa- 
sion thus offered him — the centennial of Michael Angelo 
Buonarroti. During your reign " good for nothing!!! " And 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 59 

you do not assemble all the sovereigns of the world and give 
them such a celebration as they have never witnessed! And 
you make no. fuss! Oh, king! your son, your grandsons and 
their sons will reign and not have this opportunity. Oh, big 
mass of flesh! Oh, king without ambition, without self-respect! 
There are many meetings of all sorts; concerts, illuminations, a 
ball at the Casino, the ex-Borghese palace, but no king! , . . 
Nothing as I would like it. Nothing as I would wish it. 

Monday, September \$th. — Let me see, I must collect my 
ideas. The more I have to tell, the less I write. . . , It is 
because I am impatient and nervous when I have much to 
say. 

In evening dresses, we drove through the entire city in a 
landau. Oh, how I love those sombre houses, those porticoes, 
those columns, and that architecture so massive and grand! 
Shame on you architects — French, Russian, and English — hide 
yourselves beneath the ground " cardboard palaces" of Paris; 
sink, disappear under the earth — not the Louvre, that is beyond 
criticism, but the rest. Never can they attain that superb 
magnificence which belongs to Italians. I opened my eyes 
wide when I saw those immense stones of the Palazzo Pitti. 
The city is dirty, almost squalid; but how many beauties it 
contains! Oh, city of Dante, of the Medicis, of Savonarola! 
How full of superb memories for those who think, who feel, 
who know! What masterpieces! What ruins! Oh, worthless 
king! Oh, were I a queen! 



I adore painting, sculpture, art, wherever it may be 
found. I could spend entire days in these galleries, but my 
aunt was suffering and could hardly follow me, so I sacrificed 
myself. However, life is before me, I will have time to see 
them again. 

At the Palazzo Pitti I did not see a single costume to copy; 
but what beauty, what paintings! Must I say it? I do not 
dare — everyone will cry out " Shame! Shame!" Well, confi- 



60 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

dentially, I don't like Raphael's " Madonna della Sedia." The 
face of the Virgin is pale, the complexion unnatural, the ex- 
pression is that of a " chamber-maid" rather than of the Holy 
Virgin, Mother of Jesus. But there is one picture I found 
charming — the " Magdalen," by Titian. Only — there is always 
an only — her wrists are too big, and her hands too plump — 
beautiful hands they would be for a woman of fifty. There 
are some things by Rubens and Van Dyck which are exquisite. 
The " Mensonge," by Salvator Rosa, is very natural, very 
good. I do not judge as a connoisseur. What pleases me 
best is what is most like nature. Is it not the object of paint- 
ing to imitate nature? 

I admire greatly the fresh, plump face of Paolo Veronese's 
wife, painted by himself. I like the style of his faces. I adore 
Titian and Van Dyck, but poor Raphael! I do not criticise 
Raphael, I do not understand him; with time, no doubt, I 
shall understand the beauty of his works. Nevertheless, the 
portrait of Pope Leo — I do not know which — X, I think, is 
admirable. 

The " Virgin with the Infant Jesus," of Murillo, attracted 
my attention; it is so fresh, so natural. 

To my great satisfaction I found the gallery of paintings 
smaller than I expected. It is killing to go through those end- 
less galleries — labyrinths more terrible than that of Crete. 

I spent two hours at the palace, I did not sit down an 
instant, and I am not tired. . . . Things I love do not tire 
me. As long as there are paintings, and especially statues, to see, 
I am of iron. Ah, if I had to walk through the stores of the 
Louvre, or of the Bon-Marche, or even Worth's, I should cry 
in three-quarters of an hour. 

No journey ever pleased me so much as this one. At last, I 
see something worth seeing. I adore those sombre, strozzi 
palaces; I adore those immense entrances, their superb courts, 
their galleries, their colonnades. They are majestic, they are 
grand, they are beautiful! Ah, the world is degenerating, we 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 61 

feel like sinking into the earth when we compare modern 
structures to these gigantic stones piled one on the other, and 
mounting upward to the sky. We pass over bridges of prodig- 
ious height connecting the palaces^ 

Oh, my child, save your expressions, what will you say of 
Rome? 



*?75- 



Nice, Thursday, September $oth. — I went down into, my labo- 
ratory, and oh, horror! all my vials, all my parcels, all my 
crystals, all my acids, all my tubes, opened, thrown together in 
a dirty box, and in the utmost disorder. I was furious. I sat 
on the floor and finished breaking what was already half 
destroyed. I did not touch what remained intact, I never for- 
get myself. 

Ah, so you thought Marie was gone, that she was dead! 
" You may break everything, scatter everything," cried I, still 
destroying. 

My aunt, at first, kept silent, then said: 

" Can this be a young girl? It is a monster, a horror!" 

In the midst of my rage I could not help smiling, for the 
whole matter was all on the exterior, it was not within me. 
At this moment I have the happiness to be myself once more, 
therefore, I am perfectly tranquil and look upon it all as if it 
concerned someone else. 

Friday, October ist. — God will not grant my prayer. I am 
resigned (not at all, I wait). Oh, how tiresome it is to wait 
and be unable to do anything but wait. These vexations and 
strifes with our surroundings all leave their traces on a 
woman. 

" If man, from the hour of his birth and in his first move- 
ments, did not meet with resistance, when coming in contact 
with things around him, he would soon lose his identity and 
believe the outside world to be part of himself, of his body. 
At every gesture, every step attained, he would become per- 
suaded that all is but a dependence and an extension of his 

(62) 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 63 

personal being. He would exclaim with confidence: 'The 
universe is mine!' " 

You may reasonably say this is too good to be mine. I will 
not try to make you believe it. A philosopher has said it 
and I repeat it. Ah, well! that is how I dreamed of living; 
but contact with the things around me has given me the 
blues, at which I am excessively angry. 



All persons who please me I have dared compare with the 
duke. It is strange. Ah, well, on all occasions he returns to 
me plainly and I thank God for it, for He is my light. Oh, 
what a difference! How I remember! All my happiness 
consisted in a glimpse of him. I would remain on the terrace, 
sometimes I would see him pass by, and then I would return 
to the house almost crazy. I would throw myself into the 
arms of Colignon, hiding my face on her bosom. She would 
not stop me; but raise me gently and conduct me to my lesson, 
still quite dizzy, drunk with happiness. 

Oh, how well I understand that expression, " drunk with 
happiness," for I was really so! I never looked upon him as an 
equal. I never seriously thought of knowing him. To see 
him — to see him again, that was all I asked. I love him still, 
and I shall love him always. 

How good it is to speak of him! How pure is the recollec- 
tion! In thinking of him, I leave this low Nice behind me, I 
elevate myself, I love. When I think of this I can not write 
much; I think, I love, and that is all. 



Disorder in the house is a great vexation to me, details of 
service, rooms without furniture, that air of devastation, of 
misery, breaks my heart! God have pity upon me and help 
me to arrange matters. I am alone. As to my aunt she is 
indifferent; the house may fall, the garden wither . . . 
I do not even mention the details ... As for me, those 
neglected details make me nervous and spoil my temper. 



64 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

When all is beautiful, comfortable, and rich — I am good, gay, 
and well; but desolation and emptiness leave me desolate 
and useless. The swallow builds its nest, the lion his lair, 
how is it that man who is far superior to animals will do 
nothing? 

If I say, far superior, it is not that I esteem man; no, I 
despise men profoundly and from conviction. I expect nothing 
good of them. They have not what I seek and hope for — a 
good and perfect soul. Those who are good are stupid, and 
those who are intelligent are either schemers, or too much 
occupied with their intellect to be good. Moreover, each 
creature is essentially selfish; seek for goodness in a selfish 
man, you will find interest, deceit, intrigue, envy! Happy are 
they who have ambition, it is a noble passion; through vanity 
and ambition we strive to appear good before others, and, 
if only momentary, it is better than never. 

Ah, well, my child, have you exhausted all your science? 
For the moment, yes. Thus, at least, I shall have fewer decep- 
tions! No baseness will grieve me, no villainous action will 
surprise me. The day will undoubtedly come when I shall 
think I have found a man, but on that day I shall be sadly 
mistaken. I well foresee the day I shall be blinded; I can say 
that now while my vision is clear. But, then, why do I 
live, since all is villainy and rascality in this world? Why? 
Because I understand that it is so. Because, whatever we may 
say, life is a very beautiful thing; and because, if we do not 
analyze too deeply, we may live happily. To believe neither in 
friendship, nor gratitude, nor fidelity, nor honesty; to raise 
ourselves bravely above human miseries and stop between them 
and God; to take all we can from life, and quickly; to do no 
harm to our neighbors, not to lose one instant of pleasure; 
to arrange for ourselves a useful, brilliant, and magnificent life; 
to raise ourselves as much as possible above others; to be pow- 
erful — yes, powerful! powerful! by any means — then we are 
feared and respected; then we are strong, and that is the sum- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 65 

mit of human felicity, for then our neighbors are muzzled, 
through cowardice or other causes, and they can not bite. 

Is it not strange to hear me reason thus? Yes, but this 
style of reasoning in a young creature like me is only a 
new proof of the worthlessness of the world. It must be 
much imbued with impurity and wickedness, to have saddened 
me thus in so short a time; I am only fifteen. 

And this proves the divine mercy of God, for when I shall 
be completely initiated into the hideousness of this world, I 
shall see that there is only He above in heaven, and I below, 
on this earth. That conviction will give me a much greater 
strength. I shall touch on vulgar things, only to elevate 
myself; and I will be happy when I do not take to heart the 
littleness around which men revolve, fight, devour, and tear 
each other like hungry dogs. 

What profusion of words! And when shall I elevate myself? 
And how? Oh, what visions! 

I elevate myself mentally, always mentally; my soul is great. 
I am capable of immense things; but how will it serve me, 
since I live in an obscure corner, ignored by all? 

There, you see, I do think something of my worthless fel- 
low-beings; but 1 have never disdained them; on the contrary, 
I court them. Without them there is nothing in the world. 
Only, only, I value them at their worth and wish to make use 
of them. 

The multitude is everything. What matters a few superior 
beings? I must have all the world; I must have noise, 
fame. 

When I think that — Let us return to that eternally tiresome 
and necessary word — wait! Ah, if one only knew how much 
it costs me to wait! 

But I love life, I love its annoyances and its joys. I love 
God and I love His people, with all their wickedness, and in 
spite of all their wickedness, and, perhaps, even because of all 
their wickedness. 
5 



66 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

It is still pleasant, the air is soft, the moon is bright, the 
trees are dark. Nice is beautiful. I prefer the view from my 
window to any other in the world, it is fine; but it is also sad, 
sad, sad. 

I shall read a little, then I shall continue my cerebral 
romance. 

Why can I not speak without exaggeration? My dark 
reflections, if somewhat calmer, would be more just; their 
violent form makes them unnatural. 

There are peaceful souls, there are beautiful deeds, and there 
are honest hearts; but they are so rarely to be met with that we 
must not confound them with the rest of the world. 

It may be said, perhaps, that I have these ideas, because I 
am vexed by something; but no, I have only my usual vexa- 
tions, and none in particular. Do not think there is anything 
beneath what is written in this journal. I am conscientious 
and do not let a single thought or doubt pass in silence. I 
reproduce myself as faithfully as my poor intellect will permit 
me, and if I am not believed, if something is looked for 
beyond or within what I have said, so much the worse. 
Nothing will be found, for there is nothing. 

Saturday, October gtJz. — Had I been born a Princess de Bour- 
bon, like Madame de Longueville; had I counts for servants, 
kings for relations and friends; had I never walked save on heral- 
dic emblems, and slept under royal canopies; had I a long line 
of ancestors, each one greater and prouder than the other; had 
I all this, I believe I could not be prouder nor more haughty 
than I am. 

Oh, my God, how much I thank Thee! These thoughts which 
come from You, will keep me in the right path, and will not 
allow me to lose sight of that luminous star toward which I 
am moving. 

I believe I am not moving at all just now, but I shall move, 
and for so slight a reason it is not worth while to change such 
a beautiful sentence as the above. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 67 

Ah, I am tired of my obscurity! I rust of inaction, I wither 
in the shade. The sun, the sun, the sun! 

From what side will it come to me? When? where? how? 
I do not care to know, provided it comes. 

In my moments of thirst for greatness, all objects seem 
unworthy to be touched; my pen refuses to write a common- 
place word. I look upon my surroundings with supernatural 
disdain and say to myself, sighing: " Come, courage, the pres- 
ent is but a passage leading to where all will be well." 

Friday, October i$th. — I forget! My aunt had gone to buy 
fruit in front of the Saint Reparate Church, in the city of 
Nice. 

The women immediately formed a circle around me; I sang 
in a low voice the Rossigno che vola. This filled them with 
enthusiasm, and the older ones began dancing. I repeated 
the few words I know in Nicene. In one word, it was a popu- 
lar triumph. The apple-merchant, bowing to me, cried: 

" Che be I la reginaV 

I do not know why common people love me, and I, myself, 
feel contented among them, I believe myself a queen, I speak 
to them with condescension, and I retire after a small ovation 
like that of to-day. Were I a queen, the people would 
adore me. 

Monday, December 27th. — I have had such a queer dream. I 
1 was flying high above the earth, a lyre in my hand, the cords 
; of which were constantly loosening, and I could not draw one 
sound from it. I kept on going higher, I could see immense 
horizons, clouds — blue, yellow, red, mixed, golden, silvery, 
torn, strange clouds — then all became gray, then new amaze- 
ments. I continued going upward, until finally I reached such 
ia great elevation that it was frightful, still I felt no fear; the 
clouds appeared to be frozen, grayish, and shining as lead. 
AH became vague, I still held my lyre, with its loosened cords, 
iin my hand, and far beneath my feet was a reddish ball — the 
earth. 



68 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

All my life is in this journal, my calmest moments are when 
I write. They are, perhaps, my only calm moments. 

If I die soon, I will burn all; but if I live to be old, my 
journal will be read. I believe there is not yet a photograph, 
if I may express myself thus, of the whole existence of a 
woman; of all her thoughts, of all, of all. It will be curious. 

If I die young, soon, and if by mischance this journal is not 
burned, it will be said: " Poor child! she loved, and all her 
despair came from that." 

Let it be said. I will not attempt to prove the contrary, for 
the more I say, the less will I be believed. 

What is there more stupid, more cowardly, and more vile 
than mankind? Nothing! nothing! Mankind was created for 
the perdition of good; I was about to say for the perdition of 
mankind. 

It is 3 o'clock in the morning, and, as my aunt says, I shall 
gain nothing by being up all night. 

Ah, I am impatient! My time will come. I like to think 
so, but something tells me that it will never come, that I will 
pass my life in waiting. Always waiting and waiting — waiting! 

I am angry and I do not weep; I do not throw myself on the 
ground. I am calm. It is a bad sign; it is better to be 
furious. 

Tuesday, December 2M1. — I am cold, my mouth burns. I 
know it is unworthy of a strong mind to abandon one's self to a 
vile sorrow, to gnaw one's fingers through aversion of a city like 
Nice; but to shake my head, smile with contempt, and think no 
more of it, would be too much. To weep and storm pleases 
me better. 

1 have become so nervous that each piece of music, which is 
not a galop, makes me weep. In each opera I find something 
of myself, and the most ordinary words touch my heart. 

Such a state would do credit to a woman of thirty. But the 
idea of having nerves at the age of fifteen, and weeping like a 
fool at every stupid sentimental phrase! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 69 

A little while ago I again fell on my knees, sobbing and im- 
ploring God, with arms extended and eyes fixed before me, as 
if God were there in my room. 

It seems that God does not hear me, although I cry loud 
enough. I believe I say impertinent things to the good 
God. 

At this moment I am in such despair, so unhappy that I de- 
sire nothing. If all the disagreeable society of Nice knelt 
before me, I would not budge. 

Why! why! I would give it a kick! For, after all, what 
does it all amount to? 

Oh, God! will all my life be thus? 

Monday there will be a shooting-match. I do not even care. 
And formerly? 

I wish I possessed the talent of all the authors combined, 
that I might give a just idea of my profound despair, of my 
wounded self-love, of all my baffled desires. It is enough for 
me to wish for something, for nothing to come. 

Could I ever find a dog in the street, famished and beaten 
by boys; a horse, who, from morning till night, drags an enor- 
mous load; a miller's donkey; a church rat; a professor of 
mathematics without pupils; a poor devil of any kind, so 
crushed, so miserable, so sad, so humiliated, so depressed, as 
to be compared to me. 

What is terrible in me, is that past humiliation does not 
glance off my heart, but leaves its hideous traces. 

You will never understand my situation. You will never 
realize what my existence really is. You will laugh, laugh, 
laugh! But, perhaps, some may be found who will weep. God 
have pity on me, listen to my voice. I swear that I believe 
in You. 

A life like my life, with a character like my character!!! 

I have not even the amusements of my age. I have not 
even what each American girl in short dresses has: I do not 
even dance! 



70 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Wednesday, December 29th. — My God, if You will make my 
life what I should like it to be, I promise You, my God, if You 
take pity on me, I promise to go from Kharkoff to Kieff on 
foot, like the pilgrims. If, moreover, You will satisfy my am- 
bition and make me perfectly happy, I promise You to go to 
Jerusalem and walk one-tenth of the distance. 

Is it not a sin to do as I do? Some saints have made vows; 
yes, but I seem to make conditions. No, God sees that my 
intention is good, and if I do wrong He will forgive me, for I 
wish to do right. 

My God, pardon me and take pity upon me; allow me to 
accomplish my promises. 

Holy Mary, it may be stupid, but it seems to me that, as a 
woman, you are more clement, more indulgent; take me under 
your protection and I swear to consecrate one-tenth of my 
income to all sorts of good works. If I do wrong, I do it 
unconsciously. Pardon! 



1876. 



Rome, Saturday, January \st. — -Oh, Nice, Nice, is there a 
prettier city in the world after Paris? Paris and Nice — Nice 
and Paris! France, nothing but France; in France only is 
there real life. 

I must study, since I am in Rome for that purpose. Rome 
does not impress me as Rome. 

Is it really Rome? Perhaps I am mistaken; is it possible to 
live in any city but Nice? To go through cities, to visit them; 
yes, but to remain! Bah! I will get used to it. 

And all these people who remained at Nice, they seem to 
me to have remained in the position in which I have left them; 
not budging until my return. Alas! they budge without me, 
they amuse themselves without me, and care very little for the 
" creature in white/' 

Being out of sight, I would I were also out of reach of their 
tongues. 

I hear they speak of me, I can hardly believe it. 

I think but of the month of May, when I shall make my 
entry into Nice, when I shall go to the Promenade des Anglais 
in the morning without a hat and with my dogs. 

I am here like a poor transplanted plant. I look from my 
window and, instead of the Mediterranean, I see dirty houses; 
looking out the other window, instead of the castle, I see the 
corridor of the hotel; in the place of the dial of the tower, I 
hear the clock of the hotel. 

It is wicked to acquire habits and to detest change. 

Wednesday, January $th. — I have seen the facade of St. 
Peter's, it is superb, it delighted my heart, especially the left 

(71) 



72 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

colonnade, as it stands alone; and those columns, with the sky 
for a background, produce a most striking effect. We might 
believe ourselves in ancient Greece. 

The bridge and fort of St. Angelo are also after my own 
ideas; it is grand, it is sublime! 

And the Colosseum! 

What can I say after Byron? 

Monday, January 10th. — We went to see Mgr. de Falloux, 
who has not left his bed for twenty days. From there, to the 
Countess Antonelli's, but she had left Rome ten days ago. 
Finally, we went to the Vatican. I had never seen " the 
great" so closely, and did not know how to approach them; 
nevertheless, my instinct told me we were not doing as we 
should. We were to meet Cardinal Antonelli, the Pope in fact 
if not in name, the spring which moved the papal machinery 
and still sustains it now. 

We arrived, with sublime confidence, under the right colon- 
nade, dispersing, not without trouble, the crowd of guides who 
surrounded us. At the foot of the stairway, I addressed myself 
to the first soldier and asked for His Eminence. That soldier 
sent me to the chief who gave me another soldier very queerly 
dressed. We then ascended four enormous stairways of marble, 
in different colors, and finally came to a square court, which, 
because we were not expecting it, was very imposing. I did not 
think to find such a view in the interior of a palace of any 
kind, although I knew, from descriptions, what the Vatican 
was. 

Seeing such immensity, I would not have the popes 
destroyed. They are already great in having achieved so 
much greatness, and worthy of being honored for having 
employed their lives, their power, and their gold in leaving to 
posterity this colossal structure called the Vatican. 

In this court we found some common soldiers and one 

officer, and two guards dressed like Jacks in cards. I asked 

mi lor His Eminence. The officer politely inquired my 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 73 

name. I wrote it. It was carried away and we waited. Waited 
and wondered at our absurd escapade. 

The officer said the hour was ill-chosen, that the Cardinal 
was at table, and could probably receive no one. In fact, 
the man soon returned saying, His Eminence had just retired 
to his apartments feeling somewhat indisposed and could not 
receive us; but, if we would kindly leave our cards below and 
return " to-morrow morning," he would probably receive us. 

And we left, laughing very much about our visit to Can 
dinal Antonelli. 

Friday, January \^th. — At n o'clock came Katorbinsky, 
my young Polish professor of painting, bringing a model witK 
him, with a face* wonderfully like that of Christ, if the lines 
and shades were a little softened. This unfortunate being has 
but one leg; he poses for heads only. Katorbinsky tells me 
he always takes him for his pictures of Christ. 

I must admit I was somewhat intimidated when told to 
copy from nature, like this, right away, without preparation. 
I took the charcoal and drew the outlines boldly. " Well 
done," exclaimed the master, "now do the same v/ith the 
brush." I took the brush and did as he bade me. "Well 
done," he repeated, "now paint." So I painted, and in an 
hour-and-a-half, it was finished. 

My unfortunate model had not moved; as for me, I could 
not believe my eyes. With Binsa, I required two or three 
lessons for the outline in pencil and a copy on canvas, while 
here all was done at once, and from nature — outline, color, 
background. I am pleased with myself, and if I say it, it is 
because I deserve it. I am severe and it is difficult to please 
me, especially where I, myself, am concerned. 



Nothing is lost in this world. What, then, will become of 
my love? Each creature, each man, has an equal part of this 
'fluid within him; only, according to his constitution, his char- 
jacter, and circumstances, he appears to have more or less. 



74 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

Each man loves continually, but different objects, and when 
he seems to love no longer, the fluid turns to God or to nature, 
in words, in writings, or simply in sighs or in thoughts. 

Now, there are creatures who drink, eat, laugh, and do 
nothing else. With them, this fluid is either absorbed by their 
animal instincts, or else scattered on all objects or all men in 
general without distinction, and it is these persons whom we 
call kind-hearted, and who, in general, do not know how to 
love. 

There are also some creatures who are commonly supposed 
to love no one. That is not exactly true, however, they always 
love someone, but in a manner peculiar to themselves, differ- 
ent from others. But there are still other unfortunates who 
veritably do not love, because they have loved and love no 
longer. Another error! They love no longer we say; well, 
why then do they suffer? Because, they still love and think 
they do not, or because of unrequited love or the loss of a 
beloved one. 

Within me, more than within others, the fluid asserts itself, 
and is continually visible; if I concealed it I should burst. 

I shower it, like beneficient rain, on an unworthy red gera- 
nium, which does not even suspect it. It is one of my fancies. 
It pleases me, and I imagine many things. I have acquired 
the habit of thinking of him, and once accustomed, it is diffi- 
cult to break myself of it. 

I am sad ! I fear to fear, for when I fear a calamity it is sure 
to come. I dare not pray to God, for I have but to pray to 
be certain my request will not be granted. I dare not remain 
without praying, for I would then say: " Ah, had I but prayed 
God!" 

Decidedly, I must pray; at least, then I shall have nothing 
to reproach myself with. 

Thursday, January 20th. — To-day Facciotti made me sing all 
my notes. 1 have a compass of three octaves, less two notes. 
II [minded. As for me, I am so delighted I don't 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 75 

know what to do. My voice, my treasure! My dream is to win 
a glorious place for myself on the stage. I consider that as 
fine a destiny as to become a princess. 

We visited the studio of Monteverde, then that of the Mar- 
quis d'Epinay, to whom we had a letter. D'Epinay's statues 
are marvelous. He showed me all his studies, all his unfin- 
ished works. Madame M. — had represented Marie to him as 
an extraordinary and artistic being. We admired everything, 
and asked him to make a statue of me. It will cost 20,000 
francs. It is dear, but it will be beautiful. I told him I was 
very much in love with myself. He measured my foot on that 
of a statue and found it smaller. D'Epinay exclaimed that I 
was Cinderella. The clothing and head-dresses of his statues 
are admirable. I burn with impatience to have my statue made. 



God hear me! Preserve my voice; if I lose all else, let my 

1 voice remain. My God, continue to be good to me, don't let 

1 me die of disappointment or sorrow. I desire so much to go 

I into the world! Time passes away and I do not advance. 

I am nailed to my place, I who wish to live, live running — by 

railway! I who burn, who boil, who am full of impatience! 

" I have never seen such a fever of life," said Doria of me. 

If you knew me, you would have an idea of my impatience, 

|of my pain! 

Pity! my God, pity! I have but You, it is to You that I pray, 
lit is You Who can console me! 

Saturday, January 22d. — Dina had her hair dressed by a 
hair-dresser, I also; but that frightful idiot arranged mine 
hideously. In ten minutes I changed it, and we left for the 
Vatican. I never saw anything to compare with the stair- 
ways and rooms that we went through. As to St. Peter's, I 
found nothing to criticise. A servant dressed completely in 
red damask led us into a long gallery exquisitely frescoed, and 
with cameos and medallions in bronze incased in the walls. 
To the right and left are chairs, which are hard enough, and 



76 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

at the end the bust of Pius IX., under which is placed a beau- 
tifi 1 chair in gold and red velvet. The time fixed was a 
quarter to 12, but it was 1 o'clock when the door opened, and, 
after several guards and officers in uniform, and in the midst 
of several cardinals, appeared the Holy Father, clothed in 
white, with a red mantle, and leaning on a cane with a head of 
ivory. 

I knew him well from his portraits; but, in reality, he is much 
older, so old, in fact, that his lower lip droops like that of an 
old dog. 

All the people knelt down. The Pope came to us first and 
asked who we were. A cardinal was reading the letters of 
introduction, and gave him the names. 

" Russians? Then from St. Petersburg?" 

"No, Holy Father," said mamma, "from Lower Russia." 

"Are these young ladies yours?" he asked, again. 

"Yes, Holy Father." 

We were at the right, those at the left were kneeling. 

" 1'ise! rise!" said the Holy Father. 

Dina attempted to do so. 

" No," said he, " it is only those on the left; you may remain." 

He placed his hand upon her head in such a manner that 
she bent quite low, then he gave us his hand to kiss and passed 
on to others, addressing a few words to each one. When he 
passed on the left side it was our turn to rise. He then stop- 
in d in the center and once more we knelt. He made a short 
discourse in very bad French, comparing the requests for 
indulgences at the approach of the Jubilee, to repentance 
which comes at the moment of death, and saying that we must 
gain heaven, little by little, by doing something agreeable to 

( rO(3 every day. 

lk We must gain our country little by little," said he. "But , 
our country is not London, it is not St. Petersburg, it is not 
Paris, it is I leaven. We must not wait till the hour of death, 
wr must ,,liilk ot il every day, and not do as one does at the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 77 

approach of the Jubilee. Non £ vero? " continued he, in 
Italian, turning to one of his suite, " anchi il cardinale — the 
name escaped me — lo sa." 

The Cardinal thus apostrophized, laughed, as did all the 
others; it must have had a meaning to them. Then, the Holy 
Father retired, satisfied and smiling, after having given his 
benediction to the people, rosaries, images, etc. I had a rosary, 
and on my return home I put it away in my soap-box. 

While this old man blessed and talked, I prayed God that 
the Pope's blessing might prove a true blessing to me, and that 
I might be delivered from my sorrows. 

There were several cardinals who stared at me just as the 
loungers do at the door of the Opera at Nice. 

Sunday, January 23d. — Ah, how lonely I am. If, at least, 
we were all together! How foolish to be thus separated! We 
ought always to be together. Vexations would seem less im- 
portant. We would feel better. Never, never again shall we 
be parted. We would be a hundred times better together — 
grandpapa, aunt, everybody, and Walitsky. 

Monday, February ^th. — As we alighted from the carriage, 
at the door of the hotel, I saw two young Romans watching us 
go in, and when we took our seats at the table, the two posted 
themselves so as to watch our windows. 

Mamma, Dina, and the others laughed at it, but I, more 
prudent, fearing to excite myself for two rascals, perhaps, and 
not knowing whether they were the same men I had seen in 
| front of the hotel, sent Leonie to a shop opposite with instruc- 
tions to examine those persons and come back and describe 
them. "They are very respectable gentlemen," she reported. 
From that moment we did nothing but go to the windows, look 
through the blinds, and make jokes at the expense of those two 
wretches, exposed to the rain, wind, and snow. 

It was 6 o'clock when we came in, and those two angels 
remained there until a quarter of n, waiting for us. What 
legs they must have to stand that way for five hours! 



78 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Monday, February \^tJi. — As usual, the Italian came this 
evening. Mamma^ent Fortune to buy some paper. The gen- 
tleman stopped him and spoke to him, as he had often done. 
Here is the story — though not so classical as Theramene's, it is 
not the less interesting, flavored as it is, with a Nicene accent, 
which is not without a charm of its own: 

"I was going down to get some paper when the gentleman 
spoke to me. He said: ' Is this the place where those ladies 
live?' I said: 'Yes.' Then he said to me: 'If they will visit 
my villa, I will send for them in a coupe or a landau, which- 
ever they please.' Then I told him you did not know him. 
Then he said you did know him. ' The mother of those young 
ladies knows me, we meet every evening at the villa Borghese, 
and on the Pincio.' Then I spoke to him till he gave me his 
card. Then I brought it to you and went down, when he spoke 
to me again. Then I told him the ladies had forbidden my 
speaking to him, so he said: ' I am going home to write a 
letter, in a half-hour you may come down and get it.' Then I 
told bim I could not come down every minute. Then he said 
to me: 'Let the ladies hang a string to which I may tie my 
letter, then they can draw it up the balcony. Have those 
ladies any string?' Then I told him you did not know him. 
Then he said: ' Let the ladies say by whom I may be pre- 
sented and I will go find that person.' I did not reply; he then 
said it was for the young lady in black, with flowing hair, who 
was at the villa Borghese yesterday (it was Dina). He then 
told me that if you would visit his villa, he would have people 
there and show you through, and if you wish it, he would send 
his carriage." 

You should have seen Fortune; his hands crossed behind 
his hack, one loot forward, his mouth open to the ears, and 
wiih a very wieked expression in his eyes. 

The whole affair is almost Spanish, a regular Rosina-like 
romance, and we laughed so much that Lola almost fainted 
awaj 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 79 

In the beginning I was angry; I thought that it was an imperti- 
nence, but*when I saw how it pleased Dina and her mother, I 
forgot my anger and joined in the chorus of merry jests. 

Dina kept blushing like a peony, and put on the most 
triumphant and provoking airs; she is disagreeable when she is 
like that. 

The gentleman has a villa and doubtless a fortune. Heavens! 
If he should marry Dina! I would like it more than anything. 
We have just had some gowns sent from Worth, and hers is 
all covered with white flowers exactly like orange blossoms. 

Tuesday, February i$th. — Rossi came to see us and he was 
immediately questioned as to who the gentleman was. 

" He is Count A — , the Cardinal's nephew," was the response. 

Humph! I might have known that. 

Count A — looks like G — , who is wonderfully handsome, as 
everybody knows. 

He did not look at me so much this evening, so I had a 
chance to look at him more; and I did so to my entire satis- 
faction. He is charming; but I must say that I have no luck, for 
those that I look at never look at me. He glanced at me 
through his glasses, to be sure, but discreetly, as he did the 
first day. He was very affected, too, and when we rose to go, 
he snatched up his glass, and scrutinized us as long as we 
remained. 

u I asked you who the gentleman was," said my mother to 
Rossi, " because he reminds me strongly of my son." 

" He is a charming fellow," returned Rossi, " a little passe- 
rello, very gay and full of wit, and remarkably handsome." 

I was delighted at hearing that. I have not had so much 
pleasure for a long time as I have had this evening. I was 
bored, and I did not care for anything, because I had no one to 
think of. But now all is changed, and I am full of excitement. 

" He looks very much like my son," said my mother. 

"He is a charming fellow," replied Rossi, "and, if you are 
willing, I shall be delighted to present him to you." 



80 fOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR I SEFF. 

Friday, February \Wi.— There was a grand masked ball at 
the Capitol to-night. Dina, her mother, and myself went there 
at ii o'clock. I had no domino, but I wore a close-fitting 
gown of black silk with a long train and a tunic of black gauze 
and silver lace, draped before and puffed behind so as to 
make the most graceful monk's robe in the world, a mask of 
black velvet and lace, light gloves, and a rose and some lilies 
of the valley on my breast. It was entrancing, and our 
entrance produced an immense effect. 

I was very timid, and I did not dare to speak to anyone, but 
all the men surrounded us, and I finally took the arm of one 
of them — a person I had never seen before. It was very 
amusing, but 1 think almost everyone recognized me. I 
should have been more careless in my dress, but — what differ- 
ence does it make? Three Russians thought they recognized 
me, and followed behind us, speaking Russian very loud, in 
the hope that we would betray ourselves; but, instead of that, 
1 wheeled about and spoke in Italian. They went away, say- 
ing that they were mistaken, and that I was an Italian. 

Duke Cesaro came up. 

" Whom are you looking for?" 

" A — . Is he going to come?" 

" Yes; meanwhile, stay with me — the most elegant woman in 
all the world." 

41 Oh, there he is! My clear fellow, I was looking for you." 

" Bah!" 

'•Only, as it is the first time 1 have met you, look out for 
your accent; you lose considerably when seen close to. Look 
out for what you say." 

I suppose this was witty, for Cesaro and two others began 
to laugh uproariously. I felt sure that they all recognized 
me. 

" It is easy to know your figure," they said to me on all 
sides. %i Why are j ou nol in white?" 

M Upon my word, 1 think that 1 am playing the part of 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 81 

gooseberry," said Cesaro, seeing that we talked continually 
with A — . 

" I think so, too." said I s . "Go away." 

And putting my hand through the arm of the young dandy, 
I walked through the room, without taking any more notice of 
the rest of the company than if they had been so many dogs. 

A — has a very handsome face, a clear complexion, black 
eyes, a long, straight nose, well-shaped ears, a little mouth, 
very fair teeth, and the mustache of a young man of twenty- 
three. I treated him by turns as a flirt, a young fop, as 
unhappy, as dissipated, and he told me as seriously as possible 
how, at nineteen, he had emancipated himself from the paternal 
roof, how he had cast himself headlong into the pleasures of 
life, how blase he is — that he has never loved, etc. 

" How many times have you been in love?" he asked me. 

" Twice." 

"Oh, oh!" 

" Perhaps even more." 

" I would like to be the more." 

" You audacious young man! Tell me why all these people 
have taken me for the lady in white?" 

" Because you resemble her. That is why I am with you. 
I am madly in love with her." 

"That is scarcely polite to me." 

" What do you want? It is the truth." 

"You keep looking at her. Heavens! How pleased she is, 
and how affected." 

" No, never! She is never affected. That is the last thing 
that ought to be said of her." 

" It is easy to see that you are in love." 

" I am — with you. You resemble her." 

" Fie! I have a much better figure." 

" Well, never mind! Give me a flower." 

I gave him a flower, and he gave me a branch of ivy in 
return. His accent and his languishing air made me weary. 



82 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" You have the air of a priest. Is it true that you are going 
to be ordained?" 

He commenced to laugh. 

" I detest priests; I have been a soldier." 

" You! you have only been at the seminary." 

"I hate the Jesuits; and for that reason I am continually 
quarreling with my family." - 

" My good friend, you are ambitious and you would like 
people to kiss your slipper." 

"What an adorable little hand!" he cried, kissing it, an 
operation which he performed many times during the evening. 

" Why did you make such a bad beginning with me?" I asked. 

" Because I took you at first for a Roman, and I detest 
those women." 

The fact is that when I was with Cesaro, he proposed to sit 
down, and A — placed himself on my left, and, while I was 
talking to my escort, tried to put his arm around my waist, in 
the most outrageous manner in the world. 

" If you don't drive this little fool away," said I to Cesaro, 
" I am going myself." 

And Cesaro drove the little fool away. 

I have not seen much of men, only incidentally in the street, 
in the theatre, and at home. Heavens! How different they 
are in a masked ball! So imposing and so reserved in their 
carriages, and so bold, so vulgar, and so horrid here! Doria 
was the only one who did not lose his dignity. That is, per- 
haps, because he is above human frailties. Ten times I left 
my young entertainer and ten times he found me again. 

Dominica told us to go, but the young man detained us. 
Finally, we found two arm-chairs and then the conversation 
changed. 

We spoke of Saint Augustin and of the Abbe Provost. 

Finally we escaped without anyone thinking of following 
us, for all those who had ever seen me in the street had recog- 
nized inc. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 83 

I was amused and disenchanted. 

A — does not please me at all, and yet — 

Ah, the miserable son of a priest stole my* gloves and 
kissed my left hand ! 

" You know," he said, " I don't promise to always wear this 
glove upon my heart, that would be silly; but it will serve as a 
pleasant souvenir." 

We left Fortune to avert suspicions, and returned all 
alone. 

Monday, February 21st. — I have the honor to introduce you 
to an idiot. Judge of it yourself. I seek, I find, I invent a man, 
I live in him, I swear only by him, I mix him up in everything, 
and then, when he has completely taken possession of my fickle 
mind, I become bored and perhaps sad and tearful. I am far 
from desiring that this should happen, and I only say it from 
an instinctive feeling that it will. 

When, oh, when, will the real Roman carnival come? Up to 
the present time I have seen only balconies adorned with strips 
of cloth — -red, blue, yellow, and pink, and a few masks. 

Wednesday, February 23d.- — Our neighbors were there; the 
lady was charming and the equipages superb. Trolly and 
Giorgia were in a beautiful carriage with big horses, and their 
footmen in white knee-breeches. It was the prettiest turnout 
imaginable. They inundated us with flowers. Dina turned 
scarlet and her mother was radiant. 

Finally, the cannon was fired, the horses commenced to run, 
and A — had not come; but the young man of yesterday came, 
and as our balconies were adjoining we commenced to talk. 

He gave me a bouquet, I gave him a camellia, and he said 
everything tender and loving that a well-bred young man could 
say to a young lady to whom he had not had the honor of an 
introduction. He swore to keep the flower always and to dry 
it in his watch. And he promised me to come to Nice and 
show me the petals of the flower which, in his heart, would 
always remain fresh. It was very amusing. 



84 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Count B — (that is the name of the handsome stranger) did 
not bore me; but, as I lowered my eyes to the vulgar multi- 
tude below, I saw A — , who bowed to me. Dina threw him a 
bouquet, and ten villainous arms were stretched out to seize it. 
One man caught it, but A — , with the greatest coolness, seized 
him by the throat, and held him in his strong grasp until the 
wretch released his prey. It was such a splendid thing to do, 
and A — looked almost sublime. I was perfectly enthusiastic, 
and forgetting my blushes, and then blushing anew, I threw 
him a camellia. He caught it, put it in his pocket, and disap- 
peared. Then, still excited, I turned to B — , who seized the 
opportunity to pay me compliments on the way in which I 
spoke Italian and all sorts of things. 

The barberi passed like the wind in the midst of the hurrahs 
and blows of the populace, and upon our balcony we spoke 
only of the wonderful way in which A — had caught the 
bouquet. Indeed, he had the air of a lion, of a tiger. I had 
not expected such a thing from that delicate young man. 

He is, as I remarked in the beginning, a strange mixture of 
languor and strength. 

I can still see his clenched hands grasping that rascal's 
throat. 

You will laugh, perhaps, at what I am going to say to you, 
but I shall say it all the same. 

Well, by such an action, a man can make himself loved in 
an instant. His manner was so calm, as he choked that 
villain, that I fairly lost my breath. 

In the house every time that they spoke of it, I blushed like 
a Nice rose. 

Three-quarters of an hour afterward, at the very height of 
my flirtation with our neighbor, <1 saw, at the end of a long 
pole, all ornamented with gilt paper, an immense bouquet 
carried by a queer-looking fellow, who did not know to whom 
In- must offer it, when a cane, supporting itself upon the bal- 
cony, made it lean toward me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 85 

It was A — , who was in this way repaying me for my camel- 
lia. At first I did not understand, for I had not seen A — ; 
but, after a second's hesitation, I with difficulty raised the 
magnificent bouquet, and took it into my arms, smiling as I 
did so at the awful son of a priest. 

"Why, it is splendid!" cried the English lady. 

" E bdlo veramente" said B — , a little out of humor. 

"It is charming," said I, myself delighted to the bottom of 
my heart. 

And, bearing my trophy, I went down to the carriage, and 
looked once more at the awful son of a priest. 

After seeing that I had taken his bouquet, he bowed to me 
in his calm fashion, and disappeared, no one knows where. 

All the evening I talked of nothing else. I even interrupted 
conversations to speak of what my mind was full of. " Is not 
A — adorable?" I said it in a jesting way, but I am afraid I 
really think it. At present, I am trying to persuade my friends 
that I am greatly taken with A — , and they will not believe me; 
but when I shall tell them the contrary of what I say at this 
moment, they will believe me, and they will be right. 

I am again impatient, I would like to sleep to shorten the 
time to go upon the balcony. 

Monday, February 2%th. — When I went out upon the balcony 
overlooking the Corso, I found all our neighbors at their 
places, and the carnival proceeding with great gaiety. I 
looked down below, just opposite, and I saw the Cardinalino 
with a companion. As I perceived him, I became nervous, 
blushed, and remained standing; but the wicked son of a priest 
disappeared, and, after a while, I turned to mamma, whom I 
found holding out her hand to some one — to Pietro A — . 

"Ah, this is indeed an honor! You have come to our bal- 
cony! How glad I am!" 

He remained the time that courtesy demanded with my 
mother, and then he came to my side. As usual^ I was on the 
extreme right of the balcony, adjoining that of the English 



86 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

lady. B — was late, and his place was taken by an English, 
man, whom the English lady introduced to me, and who was 
very attentive. 

" But what do you do with yourself?" asked A — , with his 
calm, gentle manner. " You never go to the theatre." 
" I have been ill; I have a sore finger." 
" Where?" and he tried to take my hand. " Do you know 
that I went every evening to the Apollo, and each time 
remained only five minutes." 
" Why?" 

" Why?" he repeated, looking me full in the eyes. 
"Yes, why?" 

" Because I went to see you and you were not there." 
He said many other things of this sort, made great play 
with his eyes, and amused me exceedingly. 
" Give me a rose." 
" What for?" 

Agree with me that this was an embarrassing question; but 
I love to ask questions to which one must return a silly answer, 
or none at all. 

" Look at that pipe-stem," I said, pointing to a frightfully 
ugly specimen of humanity in a long overcoat and a big hat. 
" If you could flatten him out, I would give you a rose." 

Then there was a spectacle fit for the gods. A — and Plow- 
den strove their best to cast old bouquets on the head of the 
man, who, becoming roused, in his turn began to pelt us. 

1 was protected by the Cardinalino and Plowden, and the 
bouquets, I ought rather to say brooms, fell all about me. 
They ended by breaking a pane of glass and a street lamp. It 
was very interesting. 

B — offered me a big basket of flowers; he blushed and bit 

his lips; I don't know what was the matter with him. But let us 

leave that tiresome person and return to the eyes of Pietro A — . 

He has adorable eyes, especially when he doesn't open them 

too wide. His lids, which (over fully a quarter of the pupil, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 87 

give to his eyes an expression which turns my head and makes 
my heart beat fast. 

Sunday \ March $th. — At the Villa Borghese there was a great 
race; a man had engaged to run forty times round the Place 
de Lienne, in the grounds of the villa, in an hour and five 
minutes. A great gathering of people, at the head of which 
was the charming princess. 

Zucchini was there (he made me laugh), Doria, and a crowd 
of others. It reminded me of the horse-races, and all the 
people wandering around upon the grass made a very pretty 
effect. 

Suddenly, I perceived the Cardinalino, and I turned aside to 
speak to Delbeck, because I felt that I was blushing. 

" Good-morning, Mademoiselle," said he, as he came up. 

" Good-morning, Monsieur." 

There are two persons who have a large part in my life, 
each independently of the other, Doria and A — . 

Doria — majesty, ice, and terror. 

A — , gaiety, coquetry, and charm. 

Pietro A — decidedly pleases me. 

I said that I had been eating violets, Cardinalino and Plow- 
den asked me for some and I gave them my bouquet, which 
they devoured like two donkeys. 

A — ended by eating the threads of silk which I pulled from 
the fringe on my dress. 



A — is a charming boy; his whims delight me. For instance, 
he bought some cards, and asked me to play. 

Plowden asked for leave to play also. 

"But it can't be done," exclaimed the fiery son of a priest, 
opening his eyes wide. 

"Yes, yes, yes," said I, "we can all three play; it is the 
same thing." 

"The same thing!" he retorted, looking at me as if he had 
been pricked with a pin. 



88 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 

As I write, I can hear his voice in my ears; I am very much 
in love with him. I speak quite naturally as I feel. When 
he goes away I am angry. I never have enough of him. It 
is absurd to get so fond of people as I do. 

"At least, to torment Pietro," said Dina, "be kind to 
B— ." 

Torment! I have no desire to do so. Torment him, excite 
his jealousy, fie! In love, that is as bad as to put paint upon 
one's face. It is vulgar, it is low. One can torment involun- 
tarily, naturally, so to speak; but, to do it with a set purpose, 
fie! Besides, I could not do it with a set purpose, I have not 
enough determination. Is it possible to be agreeable to some 
monster or other, when the Cardinalino is by and one can 
speak to him? 

The fellow in question pays determined court to mamma 
who calls him her dear child. I like to see him so nice to her. 
He complains of his parents, who do not wish him to keep 
horses because he spent too much when he joined the army 
at seventeen. He will be twenty-three in April. 

A child in years and in character. 

Monday, March 6th. — I remember that yesterday, during the 
race, I let fall my bouquet. A — leaped down, picked it up, 
and was obliged to scramble back on his knees. 

u How will he get up here again?" exclaimed Dina. 

"Oh, it is very easy," said I. 

" All that I do is very easy," said the young fellow, brush- 
ing off his knees. " I expose myself to ridicule, and it is very 
easy." And he looked far away into the distance to show that 
he was offended. 

[May, 1877. Note. — Pray, once for all, do not accord too 
much importance to my admirations; I did not really think what 
/ wrote of A . / embellished him, to create a romance?) 

March. — At 3 o'clock we were at the Porta del Popolo. 
Delbeck, Plowden, and A met us there. A — helped me to 
mount, and we started off, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 89 

My habit is of black cloth, made by Laferriere of a single 
piece, so that it has nothing of the English stiffness, nor of the 
usual scantiness; it is a princess robe, close fitting — everywhere. 

" How well you look on horseback!'' said A — . 

Plowden annoyed me by wishing to keep with me all the time. 

Pietro was uneasy about mamma, who was following us in a 
landau. 

Once alone with the Cardinalino, the conversation turned 
naturally to love. 

" Eternal love is the tomb of love," said he; "You must 
love for a day, and then change." 

"A charming idea! Was it from your uncle, the Cardinal, 
that you learned that?" 

"Yes," was the laughing answer. 

Wretched son of a dog, and of a priest, I think that he has 
made me seriously angry by that truth spoken in his calm manner. 

Once in the open country, we began to gallop, leaped 
ditches, and went like the wind. It was delightful! He 
mounts you on your horse in the most perfect manner. 

Tuesday, March jth. — Just because of all the follies I have 
talked, I have fallen in love with that scape-grace. I can't say 
that it is real love, however. He gave his portrait to mamma, 
and, as soon as he was gone, I took it away to my room, 
looked at it and found it charming, and I went to sleep think- 
ing of it, and I see him again in my fancy, and I find so many 
things I would like to say to him. 

Wednesday, March 8th. — I put on my habit, and at 4 o'clock . 
I was at the Porta del Popolo, where the Cardinalino was 
waiting for me with two horses. Mamma and Dina followed 
in a carriage. 

" Let us go this way," said my escort. 

"Very well." 

And we entered a sort of field — a pretty, green spot, called 
the Farnesina. He began his declaration again by saying: 

" I am in despair!" 



90 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" What is despair?*' 

" It is when a man desires a thing, and can not get it." 

" Do you desire the moon?" 

" No, the sun." 

" Where is it?" said I. " It has set, I think." 

" No, it is there, shedding its rays upon me; it is you." 

"Bah! Bah!" 

"I have never loved, I detest women. I have only had 
intrigues with women of loose morals." 

" And the moment you saw me, you loved me?" 

" Yes, the very moment, the first evening at the theatre." 

" You said that was all over." 

" I was jesting." 

" How can I tell when you are jesting, and when you are 
serious?" 

"Why, it is easy to be seen." 

"True; you can almost always tell when a person is speak- 
ing the truth; but you do not inspire me with any confidence, 
and your beautiful ideas upon love, still less." 

"What are my ideas? I love you, and you do not believe 
me. Ah!" biting his lips and looking away, " then I am 
nothing, and I can do nothing." 

" Pshaw! Don't be a hypocrite," said I, laughing. 

"A hypocrite," cried he, turning in a fury, "always a hypo- 
crite! Is that what you think of me?" 

"And one thing more. Be still and listen. If, at this moment, 
one of your friends should pass, you would turn to him, and 
wink at him and laugh." 

lk I a hypocrite! Oh, it is so, is it? Very well, very well!" 

l> You arc torturing your horse; let us descend the hill." 

kl You do not believe that I love you?" he said, again seeking 
my eves and bending over me with an expression of sincerity, 
which made my heart beat. 

lk Hut - no," said [, feebly. kt Hold in your horse, and let us 
(end " 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 91 

His tender speeches were again mingled with precepts of 
horsemanship. 

" Is one not to be allowed to admire you?" he said, stopping 
a few steps below me, and looking at me. " You are beauti- 
ful," he continued, " only I think that you have no heart." 

" Qn the contrary, I have an excellent heart, I assure you." 

" You have an excellent heart, and you will not love?" 

" That depends." 

" You are a spoiled child, isn't it so?" 

"Why shouldn't I be spoiled? I am not ignorant, I am 
good, only I am apt to lose my temper." 

We were still descending; but, step by step, for the hill was 
very steep, and the horses, to keep their footing, took advan- 
tage of all the little inequalities of ground, and the patches of 
herbage. 

"And I have a bad temper, too, it is wretched, and I can 
become furiously angry. Shall we leap that ditch?" 

"No." 

And I rode over a little bridge, while he leaped the ditch. 

" Let us trot up to the carriage," said he, for we had reached 
the foot of the hill. 

I started up my horse, but a few paces from the carnage he 
commenced to gallop. I turned to the right; A — followed 
me; my horse was galloping rapidly. I tried to rein him in, 
but he dashed madly onward. The plain was a large one; I 
tugged at the reins, but my efforts were vain; my hat fell to 
the ground, my hair streamed down my back, I was losing 
my strength, and I was afraid. I could hear A — behind me, I 
felt what they must be suffering in the carriage. I longed to 
throw myself off; but the horse was going like an arrow. 

" It is horrible to be killed like this," I thought. "I have 
no longer any strength; some one must save me." 

"Stop him!" cried A — , who could not catch up with me. 

" I can not," I answered in a low voice. 

My arms were trembling; an instant more and I should have 



92 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

lost consciousness, when A — came quite close, struck my horse 
over the head, and I seized his arm, partly to support myself 
and partly to touch him. 

I looked at him and he was pale as death; never have I seen 
a countenance express so much emotion. 

" God!" he ejaculated, "what anxiety you have caused me!" 

"Oh, yes, without you I should have fallen; I could no 
longer hold him. Now, it is all over. Well, it is a pretty 
thing to happen," I added, trying to laugh. " Let some one 
give me my hat." 

Dina had alighted, when we reached the landau. Mamma 
was beside herself with anxiety but she said nothing to me; 
she knew there was something underneath it all, and did not 
wish to annoy me. 

"We will go slowly home." 

"Yes, yes." 

" But how you frightened me! And you, yourself, were you 
afraid?" 

" No, I assure you, no." 

" Oh, yes, I can see it." 

" It is nothing, nothing at all." 

And in another moment we were declining the verb "to 
love " in all its moods and tenses. He told me everything 
from the first evening he saw me at the opera, when he recog- 
nized Rossi leaving our box, and he left his own to join him. 

" Do you know," he said, "that I have never loved anyone? 
My only affection was for my mother; as to the rest — I never 
looked at anyone in the theatre, and I never went to the Pincio. 
All that is silly, I laughed at all society, and now I go there 
myself." 

k ' For me?" 

"For you. I am compelled to — " 

"Compelled?" 

" Ves, by a moral force. Doubtless, I could produce an 
(•fleet upon your imagination, if I should make to you a 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 93 

declaration like a hero in a novel; but it is silly, I think only 
of you, I live only in you. Man is a material creature; he 
meets a multitude of people, and a multitude of thoughts 
occupy him; he eats, talks, reflects — but I think of you." 

" At the club, perhaps?" 

"Yes, at the club. When night comes, I remain there to 
dream, smoke, and think of you. Then — especially when it is 
dark and I am alone — I think, dream, and reach such an illu- 
sion, that I believe you are present before me. Never," he 
continued, "have I felt what I feel now. I think of you; I go 
out in the hope of meeting you. The proof is that since you 
no longer go to the opera, I no longer go there. Especially 
when I am alone, do I give myself up to dreams. I imagine 
that you are with me. I assure you that I have never felt what 
I feel now, and so I conclude that it is love. I desire to see 
you, and I go to the Pincio; I desire to see you, I am furious 
if I am disappointed; and then I dream of you. It is like this 
that I have begun to feel the pleasure of love." 

" How old are y©u?" 

" Twenty-three. I began life at seventeen, I might have been 
in love a hundred times, but I never have. I have never been 
like those youths of eighteen who live upon a flower, a picture; 
all that is silly. If you knew, sometimes, how much I think, 
how much I find to say to you, and — and — " 

"And you can not?" 

"No, it is not that; I have fallen in love and become silly." 

" Don't think that; you are not silly at all." 

" You don't love me," he said, turning toward me. 

"I know you so little that really it is impossible to tell," I 
answered. 

"But, when you know me better," he said, gently, looking 
at me in the most timid manner possible; (then he lowered 
his voice) "you will love me a little, perhaps?" 

" Perhaps," I replied, as gently as he. 

It was almost dark, and we had reached the Porta del 



94 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Popolo. I entered the carriage. He went to say good-bye to 
mamma, who gave him some commands regarding the horses, 
for the next time, and we were ready to start. 

" I hope to see you soon again," said A — to mamma. 

I held out my hand to him in silence, and he pressed it — not 
as before. 

"I know all about it," cried Dina, after we had started. 
" He said something to her, she repulsed him, he startled her 
horse and there was an accident." 

" Really, my dear, he said a great many things to me." 

" But am I not right?" demanded Dina. 

" Entirely, my dear," I answered, demurely. 

On our return home, I went to my room, disrobed, put on a 
wrapper, and stretched myself on the sofa, weary, charmed, 
bewildered. I could not understand anything at first; for two 
hours I forgot everything, and it took me two hours to recol- 
lect what you have read. I should be filled with joy if I 
believed him, but I doubt, despite his true, agreeable, even 
ingenuous air. That is what comes from being oneself canaille. 

Ten times have I left my desk to lie down upon the bed, to 
review all in my poor head, to dream, and to smile. 

See, good people, how bewildered I am, and he is doubtless 
at the club. 

I feel quite another being, quite silly; I am calm, but still 
astounded by what he has said to me. 

I remember now, he told me that he was ambitious. 

" Every well-born man ought to be so," I answered him. 

I love the way in which he speaks to me. No rhetoric, no 
affectation; one can see that he is thinking aloud. He says to 
me such sweet things, for example, this: 

"You are always pretty," he said, " I don't know how you 
manage it." 

II My hair is all clown, now." 

kk So much the better; you are still prettier so, with your hair 
down; you are still more— you are— (He stopped and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 95 

smiled.) You are still more — I don't know how to say it — 
more exciting." 

I think now of the moment when he said to me, "I love 
you," and when I answered for the hundredth time, " That is 
not true." He started in the saddle, and bending down and 
letting the reins fall: " You do not believe me!" he 
exclaimed, seeking my eyes, which I kept lowered. (Not 
through coquetry, I give you my word.) Oh, at that moment 
he was speaking the truth! I raised my head and met his 
anxious look, his black eyes, like chestnuts, and wide open 
as though striving to read my inmost thoughts. They were 
uneasy, irritated, provoked by the evasion of mine. I 
could not help it, for if I had looked him full in the 
face I should have burst out crying. I was unnerved, con- 
fused, I did not know what to do, and he thought, perhaps, 
that I was playing the coquette. Yes, in that moment, at least, 
I know that he did not lie. 

" You love me now," I answered, "in a week you will love 
me no longer." 

"Oh, have mercy! I am not one of those men who pass their 
lives murmuring sweet nothings in maidens' ears. I have 
never paid court to anyone and I love no one. There is one 
woman who tried with all her strength to make me love her. 
She made five or six appointments with me and I never kept 
one of them, because I could not love her; you know that 
well." 

Bah! bah! I shall never finish if I give myself up to these 
memories and continue to write. So many things were said. 

Come, come, it is time for sleep. 

Tuesday, March i^th. — I thought that I had promised Pietro 
to ride with him. We met him in a morning coat and a low 
hat; the poor fellow was in a cab. 

"Why don't you ask your father for some horses?" I said to 
him. 

" I have; but if you knew how hard the A — s are!" 



96 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I was vexed to see him in a miserable cab. To-day we leave 
the HOtel de Londres; we have a fine, large apartment on 
the first floor of a house in the Via Babuino — reception 
room, small salon, large salon, four sleeping rooms, a studio, 
and the servants' chambers. 

March 16th. — About 10 o'clock Pietro came. The salon is 
very large and very handsome; we have two pianos. I com- 
menced to play softly one of Mendelssohn's songs without 
words, and A — commenced to chant to me his own particular 
song. The more seriousness and warmth he put into his plea, 
the more I laughed and the colder I became. 

It is impossible for me to imagine A — as really serious. 

Whatever the one you love may say, appears delightful. I 
am amusing sometimes to those who feel only indifference 
toward me, and for much stronger reasons, to those who feel 
more. In the midst of a sentence full of love and tender- 
ness, I would say something irresistibly droll to him and he 
would commence to laugh. Then I would reproach him for 
this laughter, saying that I could not believe a boy who was 
never serious, and who laughed foolishly at everything. And 
this was repeated several times, so that he became thoroughly 
exasperated. 

And he commenced to tell again how it began, since the first 
evening of the performance of La Vestale — 

"I love you so much," he said, " that there is nothing I 
would not do for you. Tell me to shoot myself, and I would 
do it." 

" And what would your mother say?" 

" My mother would weep and my brothers would say: ' In- 
stead of being three, we are now two.' " 

II It would be of no use; I don't want any such proof." 

11 But then, what do you want? Tell me! Do you want me 
to jump out of this window into the court below?" 

And he rushed toward the window. I held him back and he 
would not let go my hand. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 97 

"No," said he, with a gulp, as if forcing back a tear, "I 
am calm now; but — Heavens! there was a moment — don't pro- 
voke me so; answer me, say something." 

"All this sort of talk is folly." 

"Yes, the folly of youth, perhaps; but I do not believe that 
I have ever felt what I feel to-day, now, here. I thought I was 
going mad." 

" In a month I shall go away and all will be forgotten." 

" I will follow you everywhere." 

"You will not be allowed." 

"Who will prevent me, then?" he cried, darting toward me. 

" You are too young," I said, changing the music, and from 
Mendelssohn passing to a nocturne, sweeter and stronger. 

"Let us be married; we have a magnificent future be- 
fore us." 

"Yes, if I were willing." 

"Oh! But of course you are willing!" 

Then he went on, becoming more and more excited; I took 
no notice and did not even change color. 

" Well," said I, " let us suppose that I will marry you; in two 
years you will have ceased to love me." 

I thought that he would stifle. 

" No! Why do you have such ideas?" And breathless, with 
tears in his eyes, he fell at my knees. 

I recoiled, red with anger. Oh, piano, my protector! 

" You must have a good temper," he said. 

"I think so, indeed, for if I did not have, I should have 
already dismissed you," I answered, turning aside to laugh. 

Then I rose, calm and satisfied, and went to make myself 
agreeable to the others. 

But he was obliged to go. 

" Is it time?" he asked, with a questioning look. 

" Yes," said mamma. 

After I had given a very brief account of the scene to 
mamma and Dina, I shut myself up in my chamber, and, before 
7 



98 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

writing, I remained an hour, with my hands over my face and 
my fingers buried in my hair, trying to analyze my own 
sentiments. 

I think that I understand myself. 

Poor Pietro! It isn't that I care nothing for him — on the 
contrary; but I can not consent to be his wife. 

The wealth, the villas, the museums of the Ruspolis, the 
Dorias, the Torlonias, the Borgheses, the Chiara would 
overwhelm me. Above all things, I am ambitious and vain. And 
to think that one loves such a creature, because one does not 
know her! If one could know her, that creature — Ah! Bah! 
one would love her just the same. 

Ambition is a noble passion. 

Why under the sun is it A — instead of another? 

And I go on repeating the same phrase, changing the 
name. 

Saturday, March iSt/i.—l have not had an instant alone with 
A — , and it annoys me. I love to hear him tell me that he 
loves me. Since he has told me all, I spend much of my time, 
with my head in my hands, thinking, thinking! Perhaps I am 
in love. It is when I am tired out, and half asleep that I 
think that I love Pietro. Why am I vain? Why am I ambi- 
tious? Why am I sensible? I am incapable of sacrificing for 
an instant's pleasure whole years of magnificence and satisfied 
vanity. 

"Yes," say the writers of romance, "but that instant's 
pleasure is enough to brighten, with its beams, a whole life- 
time." Oh, no, I do not believe it! Now I am cold and I 
love; to-morrow I shall be warm and I shall not love. See, how 
the changes in temperature affect the destinies of men. 

When he went away, A — said: "Good-evening," and took 
my hand and held it in his, asking me a dozen questions to 
defer our parting. 

1 immediately told all this to mamma; I tell her everything. 
March 20th. I behaved horribly this evening. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 99 

I talked in a low tone to the scape-grace, and gave every- 
body reason to believe things which will never come to pass. 
With other people about, he does not amuse me; when we 
are alone, he speaks to me of love and marriage. The son of 
a priest is jealous — furiously jealous; and of whom? Of 
everybody. 

I listen to his rhapsodies, laughing with cold indifference, 
and at the same time let him take my hand. I also take his 
hand, in a manner almost maternal, and if he has not entirely 
lost his wits through his passion for me, as he says, he must 
see, that, while driving him away with my words, I detain him 
with my eyes. 

I tell him that I shall never love him, but I do love him, 
or at least, I act as if I did. I say all sorts of silly things 
to him. Another man (an older man) would be contented; but 
he tears a napkin, breaks two pencils, or rips a curtain! 

All these actions permit me to take him by the hand and to 
tell him that he is an idiot 

Then he looks at me with fixed fury, and his black eyes are 
plunged in my gray ones. I say to him, perfectly gravely: 
"Make up a face for me," and he laughs and I pretend to be 
vexed. 

"Then you don't love me?" 

"No." 

" I ought not to have hoped it." 

" Good heavens! yes; one must always hope; hope is apart 
of man's nature, but — as far as I am concerned, why — I will 
not give it to you." 

And as I spoke laughingly, he went away passably satisfied. 

Friday, March 24M. — Saturday, March 25th. — A — arrived a 
quarter of an hour earlier than usual; pale, interesting, sad, 
and calm. 

When Fortune announced him, I armed myself from head to 
foot with that cold courtesy, calculated to enrage a man in his 
position. 



100 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I let him spend ten minutes alone with mamma before 
going in. Poor thing! he is jealous of Plowden! What an 
ugly thing it is to be in love! 

"I had made up my mind never to come to your house 
again." 

" Why have you come, then?" 

" I thought that it would be rude to your mother who has 
been so kind to me." 

" Oh, if that is the reason, you can go away and not come 
back again. Good-bye!" 

" No, no, no! It was to see you." 

" Ah! that is quite another thing." 

" Mademoiselle," he said, " I have made a great mistake, 
and I know it." 

" How so?" 

" I have made you understand — I have told you that — " 

" That?" 

" That I love you," he exclaimed, contracting his lips, as if 
to prevent himself from crying. 

" Pshaw! That is no mistake." 

" Yes, it is a great, a tremendous mistake, for you play with 
me as if I were a doll, or a ball." 

"What an idea!" 

"Oh, I know that that is your nature! You love fun. 
Well, have all the fun you like with me. It is my fault." 

" Let us have our fun together." 

"Then, tell me, it was not to dismiss me, that you told me 
to go away from the theatre?" 
Io!" 

" It was not to get rid of me?" 

" Monsieur, I do not need to make use of a stratagem, when 
I wish to get rid of anyone. I do it quite openly, as I did in 
B — 's case." 

"Ah! and you told me there was no truth in that affair," 

M Let US talk of something else," 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 101 

He leaned his cheek against my hand. 

" Do you love me? " he asked. 

" No, Monsieur, not the least little bit in the world." 

He did not believe a word of it. 

At this moment, mamma and Dina came into the room, and 
after a few minutes, he went away. 

Monday, March 27th. — In the evening we had company, and 
among others, A — . 

Again we found ourselves at the piano. 

" I know," he said, " who will be successful with you. A 
man who possesses great patience, and who loves you much 
less. But, don't you love me?" 

" No! " I said, as I had twenty times before. And our faces 
were so close that I am surprised the sparks did not fly. 

" You see! " he exclaimed. " What is to be done, when the 
love is all on one side? You are as cold as ice, and I — I love 
you." 

"You love me? No, Monsieur, but you may some day." 

"When?" 

" Oh, in six months or so." 

"In six months? I love you, I tell you; I am mad with 
love, and you mock me." 

"You are very wise, Monsieur, really. Now, listen; even 

if I loved you, there would be too many difficulties in my 

path. I am too young, and then, there is religion." 

j "Oh, I know all that. There will be difficulties for me, too; 

1 you think not? You can not understand me, because you don't 

love me. But, if I should propose to you to elope? " 

"Horror! " 

"Wait! I do not propose it to you. It is a horror, I know, 
when one is not in love. It would not be a horror, if you 
loved me." 

"Monsieur, I beg of you, don't speak of such a thing." 

"Mademoiselle, I am not speaking of it to you; but I 
should do so, if you loved me." 



102 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"I do not love you." 

I do not love him, and yet I let him say all these things to 
me. How absurd it all is! 

I think that he has spoken to his father, and that his com- 
munication has not been kindly received, I can not decide. 
I am entirely ignorant of the condition of affairs, and I would 
not consent to go and live with his family. It is hard enough 
to live with my own. What would it be among strangers? Am 
I not wonderfully sensible for a girl of my age? 

" I will follow you," he said, the other evening. 

" Come to Nice," I said to him to-day. 

He answered nothing, but kept his head down, which proved 
to me that he had spoken to his father. 

I do not understand it at all. I love him, and I do not love 
him. 

Wednesday, March 29th. — I have said that A — was not yet 
ready to relinquish everything for me. 

" I love you," he said. " I will do anything for you." 

"The Pope will curse you; the Cardinal will curse you; and 
your father will curse you." 

" I trouble myself very little about all those people, when 
you are in question. I snap my finger at the whole world. If 
you loved me, as I love you, you would say what I say. If 
you had a passion for me, as I have for you, you would not 
speak as you do, and you would see in the whole world only 
the one you loved." 

Ah! Pietro is no longer a silly boy. He is improving more 
and more, and I commence to have a certain respect for him. 
Thursday, March $oth. — To-day, alone, shut up in my cham- 
ber, with the door locked, I have given myself up to deep 
reflection over this grave matter. 

For several days my position has been a false one — and 
why? 

Because Pietro has asked me to be his wife; because I have 
not squarely refused him; because he has spoken to his 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 103 

parents; because his parents are not easy to manage; and 
because Visconti has had the following conversation with 
mamma: 

"I would like to know, Madame, to whom it is your inten- 
tion to marry your daughter? " commenced Visconti, after 
having spoken favorably of Pietro's fortune and person. 

"I have no fixed idea," said mamma, "and then my daugh- 
ter is so young/' 

" Ah, Madame, we must discuss things openly. Would you 
marry her to a foreigner, or to a Russian, one of her own 
countrymen? " 

" I should prefer a foreigner, because she would be more 
happy with him, since she has been brought up outside of her 
own country." 

" Well, I would like, also, to know if all your family would 
consent to her marriage with a Catholic, and that the offspring 
of the union should be brought up in the Catholic faith?" 

" Our family would gladly consent to anything that would 
be conducive to my daughter's happiness." 

" And what would be the relations of your family with that 
of the bridegroom? " 

" Excellent, I think, inasmuch as the two families would see 
each other rarely or not at all." 

" Pietro A — is a charming young man and he will be very 
rich, but the Pope is an important factor in all the affairs of 
the A — s, and the Pope will make difficulties." 

" But, Monsieur, why have you said all this? There is no 
question of marriage. I love that young man as one of my 
children, but not as a future son-in-law." 

That is the conversation as nearly as mamma could remem- 
ber it. 

It would be a very sensible thing to go away, especially as 
nothing will be lost by putting the matter off till next winter. 

We must go to-morrow. I will prepare myself— I mean, to 
see the marvelous places which are as yet unknown to me. 



104 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTS-EFF. 

Yes, but what frets me the most is that the opposition does 
not come from our side, but from the A — s. It is horrid, and 
my pride rebels at it. 

We will leave Rome. 

It is not very agreeable, really, to have objections made to 
me by his family when I myself don't want anything to do 
with them. Rome is such a gossiping city that everybody is 
talking, and I am the last to perceive it. That is always the 
case. 

I have doubtless worked myself up into a fury at the idea 
that they want to take Pietro away from me, but I see a finer 
future before me and I aspire to a loftier station, thank 
heaven! If A — satisfied me in every way I should not be 
angry; but a man whom I have rejected in my mind as being 
unworthy of me, and they dare to say that the Pope will not 
allow it! 

I am furious — but wait a moment! 

The evening came, and with the evening, Pietro A — . 

We received him coldly enough because of the Baron Vis- 
conti's words and also of a multitude of suppositions, for since 
Visconti's visit, we have done nothing but conjecture. 

" To-morrow," said Pietro, soon after his arrival, "I am 
going away." 

" Where?" 

"To Terracina. I shall remain there eight days, I think." 

" They are sending him away," murmured mamma, in Rus- 
sian. 

I had said the same thing to myself. How shameful! I 
could have cried with rage. 

" Yes, it is disagreeable," I answered, in the same language. 

Oh, dog of a priest! You understood thoroughly how 
humiliating all this is! 

Conversation languished. Mamma was so offended and so 
angry that her headache increased and she went to her room 
Dina had already retired. There was a tacit agreement to 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 105 

leave me alone with him in order that I might find out the 
truth. 

Once aione, although trembling a little inwardly, I advanced 
bravely to the attack. N 

" Why are you going away? Where are you going?" 

Ah! if you fancy that he answered me as squarely as I asked 
the question, you are greatly mistaken. 

I questioned and he eluded answering. 

"What is your motto, Mademoiselle?" he asked. 

" Nothing before me, nothing after me, nothing beyond 
myself!" 

"Well, that is mine, too." 

"So much the worse!" 

Then began protestations too real to be agreeable. Words 
of love, without beginning and without end, bursts of anger, 
reproaches. I sustained the storm with equal dignity and 
calmness. 

"I love you to distraction," he went on; "but I have no con- 
fidence in you. You have always jeered at me, always laughed, 
always been cold with your magisterial questions. What would 
you have me say to you when I see that you will never 
love me?" 

I listened, stiff and motionless, not even allowing him to 
touch my hand. I was determined at all costs to know every- 
thing; my anxiety and suspicions made me too miserable. 

" How, Monsieur, do you expect me to love a man whom I 
do not know; who hides everything from me? Speak, and I 
will believe you; speak, and I promise to give you an answer. 
Understand, after you have spoken, I promise to give you an 
answer." 

"But you will laugh at me, Mademoiselle, if I tell you. You 
see it is such a secret that if I tell you it will be a complete 
revelation of myself. There are certain things so personal 
that one tells them to no one in the world," 

"Speak; I am waiting." 



106 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR! SEFF. 






" I will tell you, but you will laugh at me." 

" No, I promise you not to." 

After many promises not to laugh, and not to repeat it to 
anyone, he told me at last. 

It seems that last year, when he was a soldier at Vienna, he 
incurred debts to the amount of 34,000 francs, that is, in three 
months' time. He quarreled with his father, who refused to 
pay them. But a few days ago, he pretended that he was 
going away, saying that he was badly treated at home. Then 
his mother came to him and told him that his father would 
pay his debts on condition that he would lead a sensible life. 
"And, in the first place, and before being reconciled with your 
parents, you must become reconciled to God." He has not 
been to confession for a long time. In short, he is going to 
retire for eight days to the monastery of San Giovanni and 
Paolo, Monte Coelia, near the Coliseum. 

It was hard enough for me to keep serious, I assure you; to 
us, this seems so odd, but it is quite natural for the Catholics 
of Roaie. 

That is the secret, then. 

I leaned against the mantle, and turned away my eyes, 
which, heaven knows why, were full of tears. He stood near 
me, and for some seconds we neither spoke nor looked at one 
another. We remained standing an hour to talk — of what? 
Of love, of course. I know all that I wanted to know, I have 
drawn everything from him. 

He lias not spoken to his father, but he has told all to his 
mother. 

II Moreover," he said, "you can be sure, Mademoiselle, that 
my parents have nothing against you; religion is the only 
obstacle." 

" 1 am confident that they can have nothing against me, for, 
if I should consent to marry you, it is you who would be hon- 
ored, not 1." 

1 took (are to show myself reserved and prudish, as I am, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 107 

ajid to utter moral principles of an astounding purity, so that 
he could relate it ail to his mother, since he tells her everything. 

He has never spoken to me as he did this evening. u I 
love you, I adore you, I am mad with love,'* he murmured, 
very rapidly. " Do you love me a little? Tell me!" 

" If I do love you, what good can come of it?" 

" It will make us happy." 

" I am not the only one to decide the matter. You know, 
Monsieur, there are fathers and mothers." 

" Mine, Mademoiselle, are not opposed, I can assure you 
of that. Let us be engaged." 

" Not so quickly, Monsieur. What did you say to your 
mother? How did you speak to her?" 

" I said to her, ' It has been a strong desire of yours that I 
should marry. Now, I have found some one whom I love, 
and I wish to marry and settle down.' And my mother 
answered that I must think it over carefully before taking so 
serious a step, and all sorts of things." 

" That is quite natural. And have you spoken to your father?" 

" No." 

" I ask you this, because we are being gossiped about in 
the city, and some one has spoken to mamma on the subject, 
and it made her very angry." 

" My mother has doubtless mentioned it." 

It is after 2 o'clock, and I should never finish writing if 
I should try to set down even half of all that was said, and 
then, it is a shame, but one can write only the harsh things; 
as for the sweet things, they can not be written, and they are 
the only things amusing to read. 

Sunday, at 2 o'clock, I am to be in front of the monastery, 
and he will show himself at the window, and press a white 
handkerchief to his lips. 

As soon as he was gone, I ran to calm mamma's wounded 
pride, and I told her all; but in a laughing way, so as not to 
appear in love. 



108 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

For the present, this is enough! My mind is at rest, and J 
am happy, especially happy before the members of my own 
family, who have already begun to look melancholy. 

It is late, and I must really go to sleep. 

Friday, March 31^/. — It was a famous proof of love,- to tell 
me what he did, and I did not laugh. He begged me to give 
him my picture to carry with him to the monastery. 

" Never, Monsieur; it would be such a temptation. Never- 
theless, I shall think of you all the time." Those eight 
days in a monastery are ridiculous enough. What would his 
friends of the Caccia Club say if they knew about it? 

I will never tell any one. Mamma and Dina do not count, 
for they will be as silent as I. Pietro in a monastery — it is a 
side-splitting thought. 

Suppose he invented it all? Such a character is frightful! 
I have no confidence in any one. Poor Pietro, in a monk's 
frock, shut up in a cell, four sermons a day, mass, vespers, 
matins! I can not grow accustomed to so strange a thing. 

Oh, God! do not punish a vain creature; I swear to you, 
that I am honorable at heart, and incapable of a low or mean 
action. I am ambitious, that is my misfortune. 

The beauties and ruins of Rome turn my head; I long to be 
Caesar, Augustus, Marcus Aurelius, Nero, Caracalla the devil, 
the Pope! 

I long to be everything, and I am nothing. 

But I am always the same; you can be convinced of that by 
reading this journal. The details and the shading change, 
but the chief lines are always the same. 

It is a pretty thing to be shut up in a monastery! 

How he must be bored, poor fellow! I was wrong to tell 
my family about it. I am unworthy of his confidence; but I 
could not do otherwise, with mamma so furious. 

' k What!" she said, "they make a pretense of having refused 
us, when we had no desire for them at all? They dare to think 
that it would be so great a happiness for us! It is insulting!" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 255 

approach each other, pursue one another, and all this with lit- 
tle cries, gestures, and smiles that make you shiver. 

The young girls dance little and very simply. 

We ordered something for them to drink, and taking leave 
of the amiable savages, I concluded to go to bed; but I 
stopped upon the staircase as I did the other evening, and 
Paul and the others grouped themselves upon the steps below. 
Chocolate sang us a Nicene song, to my great satisfaction. 

After the song, came instrumental music. 

I drew from the violin the most unheard-of sounds, piercing, 
crying, hideous, which made me laugh heartily, and my laugh- 
ter, with the furious accompaniment, sent the rest into convul- 
sions, even Chocolate. 

Thursday^ September 7th {August 26th). — The everyday 
costume of a Little Russian woman consists of a garment of 
heavy cloth, with large, puffed sleeves, and embroidered with 
red and blue; and a piece of black cloth, manufactured by the 
peasants, and which is wrapped about the figure from the 
waist down. This sort of apron is shorter than the main gar- 
ment, the embroidery of which is seen below the apron. The 
apron is held up only by a colored woolen belt. A quantity 
of necklaces are worn and a ribbon is bound about the head. 
The hair is arranged in a net, from the end of which hang 
several ribbons. 

I sent and bought such a dress from the peasants, put it on, 
and, accompanied by our young men, went into the village. 
The peasants did not recognize me, for I was not dressed as a 
young lady, but entirely as a peasant, a girl — the married 
women dress differently. On my feet I wore black slippers 
with red heels. 

I bowed to everybody, and, when we reached the cabaret, we 
sat down near the door. 

When my father saw me, he was surprised, but delighted. 

"What won't she do next?" he cried. He made us all four 
enter his open carriage and drove us about the streets. 



256 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I laughed immoderately, to the great astonishment of the good 
villagers, who wondered who this young peasant was who was 
being driven about by " the old lord " and " the young gentle- 
men." Papa, however, is not old. 

A Chinese tom-tom, a violin, and a music-box amused us in 
the evening. 

Michel beat the tom-tom, I played the violin, (played, may 
the Lord forgive me), and the music-box played itself. 

Instead of retiring at an early hour, as is his custom, the 
author of my being stayed with us until midnight. If I have 
made no other conquest, I have made my father's. When he 
speaks, he seeks my approbation; he listens to me with atten- 
tion; he lets me say what I like of Aunt T— , and he agrees 
with me. 

The music-box was his present to the princess; we all gave 
her something; it is her birthday. 

The domestics are delighted to serve me and to be delivered 
from the u French." I even order the dinners. And to think 
that I looked upon this as a strange house, and was afraid of 
its habits and its regular hours! 

They wait for me as at Nice, and I fix the hours for every- 
thing myself. 

My father adores gaiety, and he is not accustomed to it in 
his own family. 

Friday, September St/i {August 27M). — Miserable fear, I 
will conquer you! Did I not take it into my head yesterday 
to be afraid of a gun? It is true that Paul had loaded it, 
that I did not know how much powder he had put in, and that 
I was unacquainted with the gun. It might have exploded, 
and that would have been a stupid death; or, I might have 
been disfigured for life. 

So much the worse! It is only the first step that counts; 
terday, I fired at fifty paces, and I fired to-day without any 
sort of fear. 1 believe— heaven forgive me — that I hit the 
bull's-eye every time. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 257 

If I succeed with Paul's portrait, it will be a miracle, for he 
will not sit for me, and to-day I worked only -fifteen minutes. 
I was alone; no, not entirely, for opposite to me was Michel, 
who has dared to fall in love with me. 

All this brought us to 9 o'clock. I loitered, and loitered, 
and loitered, seeing how impatient my father was. I knew 
very well that he was only awaiting our departure to fly into 
the forest — like a wolf. 

I again held my court upon the stairs. I love stairs, because 
by them we go up higher. Pacha was to go away to-morrow, 
but I said so much this evening that perhaps he will remain; 
although it would be more sensible of him to go, for to love 
me as a sister is dangerous for a country-bred gloomy dreamer 
of twenty-two. With him and Michel, I am at my best, so of 
course they are very fond of me; but when I am with stupid 
men, I become stupid myself. I do not know what to say that 
will be intelligible to them, and I am afraid every instant that 
they will suspect me of being in love with them. Like that 
poor Gritz, for instance, who thinks every girl is longing for 
him, and sees, in the least smile, traps and plots against his 
celibacy. Do you know the derivation of that word, celibacy? 

Coelebs, in Latin, means forsaken; it comes also from the 
Greek word Koi'los, which means empty, worthless. 

Oh, celibates! empty, worthless, forsaken creatures! 



As soon as I heard my father go out, I rushed into the 
princess' room, threw myself on her bed, then brushed Pacha's 
hair, patted Michel on the head, and said so many silly things 
that I am at this moment astounded at myself. May God 
grant that I do not grow to detest Pacha, the good boy, he is 
so honest! 



We have been reading Poushkine aloud, and we discussed 
love. 

Ah, I would really like to fall in love, to know what it is; 
17 



258 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

but perhaps I have already loved? In that case, love is a con- 
temptible thing that one picks up, only to throw away again. 

" You will never love," my father said to me. 

" If that were true, I should thank heaven for it," I replied. 

I want to, and I do not want to. 

Yet, in my dreams, / love; yes, but an imaginary hero. 

And A — ? I love him? No, is this the way one loves? No. 
If he were not the nephew of a Cardinal, if he had not about 
him priests, monks, ruins, the Pope, I should not love him. 

Besides, what need have I to explain? You know all better 
than I; you know that the music of the opera, and A — in the 
barcaccia, produced a charming effect upon me, and you must 
know, also, the power of music. It was an amusement, but it 
was not love. 

When, then, shall I love? I am going again to amuse 
myself; to scatter, on all sides, the superabundant affection of 
my heart; again to become enthusiastic; again to weep — and 
for people who are nothing! 

Saturday, September gtk (August 2%tK). — The days pass, and 
I am losing precious time in the best years of my life. Even- 
ings spent at home, jests, and a gaiety of which I am the 
whole head and front; then going up and coming down in an 
arm-chair made by Michel and the other. I look at my shoes 
in the glass, as I come down — every day like that. 

What weariness! Not a bright word! Not a cultivated 
sentence! I, unfortunately, am a pedant, and like to talk of 
the ancients and the sciences. Find anything of that sort 
here, if you can! Cards, and nothing else. I would shut 
myself up and read; but, my object being to make myself 
loved, that would be a strange way to attain it. 

Once settled for the winter, I will begin to study as before. 



In the evening, Paul had some difficulty with a servant. 
My father encouraged the servant. I reprimanded (that is the 
word) my father, who swallowed the reprimand. That is not a 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF. 109 

Mamma was right, and — well, I had to calm her and raise 
myself in her eyes. 

Indulgentia plenaria pro vivis et defunctis. Amen. 

April 3d. — It is spring, and they say that all women grow 
beautiful at this season of the year. That is true, if I may 
judge from myself. The skin becomes more delicate, the 
eyes brighter, and the color fresher. 

It is the third of April, and I have still fifteen days of 
Rome. 

How strange it is! as long as I wore a fur hat, we had win- 
ter; yesterday, I put on a straw one, and instantly it was 
spring. A gown or a hat often produces this effect; how often 
a word or a gesture will bring about something which has 
been a long time preparing, and for the springing into life of 
which, this little shock was necessary. 

Wednesday, April $th. — I write and speak of all those who 
pay me any attention. All this is nonsensical, and it is caused 
by my idleness. 

I paint and I read, but it is not enough. 

A vain girl like me should devote herself to painting, for it 
is an imperishable art. 

I shall never be a poet, nor a philosopher, nor a savant. I 
can be only a singer and a painter. That, in itself, is a good 
deal. And then, I want to be in everyone's mouth, and that 
is the principal thing. 

Stern moralists, don't shrug your shoulders or criticise me 
with an affected indifference. To tell the truth, you are the 
same at heart. You take very good care not to let it be seen, 
but that does not prevent you from knowing in your inmost 
souls that what I say is true. 

Vanity! Vanity! Vanity! 

The beginning and the end of all things and the eternal and 
sole cause of all things. 

What is not the effect of vanity is the effect of the passions. 
The passions and vanity are the only masters of the world. 



110 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Thursday, April 6th. — I come to my journal to implore it to 
comfort my empty, sad, unlucky, envious, unhappy heart. 

Yes, and I, with all my tendencies, with all my strong desires, 
and the fever of my blood, am always and everywhere checked 
like a horse is checked by the bit. He foams, rages, and 
rears, but he is checked. 

Friday, April jth. — I am worried to death. Oh, how express- 
ive is the Russian saying: " To have a cat in the heart." I 
have a cat in my heart. It gives me constant and incredible 
pain to think that a man I care for can not love me. 

Pietro has not come; he left the monastery only this even- 
ing. I have seen his clerical and hypocritical brother, Paul 
A — . There is a being who ought to be crushed — little, black, 
sallow, vile, hypocritical Jesuit! 

If the monastery story be true, he must know of it, and how 
he must laugh in his little, mean way, when he tells it to his 
friends. Pietro and Paul can not endure one another. 

Sunday, April gth. — With fervent faith, a heart filled with 
emotion, and a soul at peace with all men, I went to confession 
and partook of the Holy Communion. So also did mamma 
and Dina, and then we heard mass. I listened to every word 
and I prayed. 

Is it not maddening to be under subjection to an unknown 
and incontestable power? I mean the power which has taken 
away Pietro. What can not the Cardinal do, when the people 
of his church are in question? The power of the priests is 
enormous, and it is impossible to penetrate their mysterious 
machinations. 

We are filled with astonishment, fear, and admiration. It is 
only necessary to read the history of the various nations to 
see their hand in all events. They are so far-sighted that 
ordinary eyes can not discern what they are gazing at. 

Since the beginning of the world, in all countries, the 
supreme power has either openly or covertly belonged to 
them. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. Ill 

No, really, it would be too much, if, with one fell blow, they 
should take Pietro away forever! He can not fail to return 
to Rome, he has declared so strongly that he would do so. 

Isn't he doing anything to bring about his return? Isn't 
he breaking everything? Isn't he screaming out in his 
despair? 



My God! I have been to confession, I have received absolu- 
tion, and I am in a tearing, swearing rage. 

A certain amount of sin is as necessary to a man's life as is 
a certain amount of air. 

Why do men remain bound to the earth? Why does the 
weight of their conscience drag them down? If their con- 
science were pure, they would be too light and they would fly 
away toward the skies like red balloons. 

That is a strange theory. But no matter! 

And Pietro does not come. 

But then I don't love him! I want to be sensible and 
tranquil, and I can not. — 

The benediction and the portrait of the Pope has brought 
me ill-luck. 

They say that he brings ill-luck. 

There is a strange hissing in my breast, my finger-nails are 
red, and I cough. 

There is nothing more frightful than not to be able to pray. 
Prayer is the only consolation of those who can not act. I 
pray, but I do not believe. It is abominable. But it is not 
my fault. 

Monday, April 10th. — They have shut him up forever — 
No, they have shut him up for the time that I am to be in 
Rome. * 

To-morrow, I go to Naples; they can not have foreseen this 
move. Besides, once released, he will come after me. It is 
not this that I am uneasy about, but the present uncertainty, 
this unsuspected, unforeseen blow. 



112 JOURNAL OJ MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I walk about my chamber, groaning low, like a wounded 
wolf. 

I have still the branch of ivy he gave me at the Capitol. 
How sad it all is! 

I don't really know what is the matter with me, which is 
ridiculous, no doubt, but true. 

Besides, it is folly to rage, to pray, and to weep; and isn't 
it always so under all and every circumstance? I ought to 
become accustomed to it and no longer fatigue heaven with 
my useless lamentations. 

I don't know what to think him— a worthless fellow, a 
coward, or a child whom they tyrannize over. 

I am exceedingly calm, but sad. It is only necessary to look 
at things from a certain point of view, says mamma, to dis- 
cover that there is nothing in the world worth the trouble. On 
the whole, I agree with my lady mother; but, to do so per- 
fectly, I must know the exact truth. All that I know is that 
this is a queer state of affairs. 

Wednesday, April 12th. — All night long I saw him in my 
dreams; he assured me that he had really been in the mon- 
astery. 

They are packing up, and we go away this evening to 
Naples. I hate going away. 

When shall I have the happiness of living in a home always 
in the same city; to see always the same set of people, and 
from time to time to take journeys for recreation? 

Rome is the place where I would like to live, love, and 
die. 

No, stop, I would like to live where I would be well, to love 
everywhere, and to die nowhere. 

Yet, I must say that I like the Italian, or rather, Roman life 
well enough; there is a certain aroma of ancient magnificence 
still hanging about it. People are too apt to have a false idea of 
Italy and the Italians. They are pictured as poor, selfish, 
bigoted, and thoroughly broken down. It is quite the CQU- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASJ^LIRTSEFF. 113 

trary. Rarely, in other countries, can be found families as 
rich and houses maintained with so much luxury. I speak, of 
course, of the aristocracy. 

Rome under the Pope was a city apart, and in its way 
sovereign of the world. Then, each Roman prince was like a 
little king; he had his court and his clients as in antiquity. It 
is from this regime that the greatness of the Roman families 
sprang. Certainly, in two more generations, they will have 
neither greatness nor wealth, for Rome is subject to the royal 
laws, and Rome will become like Naples, Milan, and the other 
cities of Italy. 

The great fortunes will be divided, the museums and galler- 
ies acquired by the government, and the princes of Rome 
transformed into a crowd of nobodies, covered with a 
great name as with an old theatrical mantle, to hide their 
misery. And when these great names, once so respected, shall 
be dragged in the mud, when the king shall think that he alone 
is great, having trampled under his feet all the nobility, he will 
suddenly, in a flash, perceive what a country is where there is 
nothing between the people and their king. 

Take France as an example. 

On the other hand, take England, where the people are 
free and happy. There is so much poverty in England, you 
will say. But, in general, the English people are the happiest. 
I am not speaking of their commercial prosperity, but only of 
their domestic life. 

Let any one who desires a republic in his country begin by 
trying it in his own household. 

But enough of dissertations on subjects of which I have only 
a feeble idea, and an entirely personal opinion. 

What will Pietro say when he returns to Rome and does not 
find me there? What a rumpus he will make! So much the 
worse for him. It isn't my fault. 

Naples, Thursday, April \$th. — "See Naples and die!" 
I desire neither the one nor the other. 

8 



114 JOURNAL ^)F MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

It is 7 o'clock, and the weather is as fine as it is at Nice. I 
can see from my window magnificent turnouts, of which Rome 
possesses very few. Besides, Naples is renowned for the 
splendor of its horses and carriages. 

Did he go away of his own accord, or was he forced to do 
so? That is the question. 

I am writing in front of a large mirror, and I look like 
Beatrice di Cenci in my white robe and flowing hair. My hair 
is arranged in the Pompeian style, as Pietro used to say. 

Heavens! how I wish I had one of Dumas' novels! It 
would prevent me from writing follies, and above all, from 
reading them afterward. 

Shut up by myself, I have wept many tears. It is just the 
same as it was at Rome. Heavens! how I hate changes! how 
miserable I am in a new city! 

He received his orders and he obeyed, and to obey he must 
have loved me very little. 

He did not obey when his military service was in question. 
Fie! Enough! Enough! 

Poverty! Pshaw! Vileness! lean no longer keep thinking 
of such a man. If I lament, it is over my unhappy fate, over 
my poor life scarcely begun, and during which I have met only 
with deceit. 

Certainly, like all human beings, perhaps even more than 
others, 1 have sinned; but on the other hand, there is some 
-ocd in me, and it is unjust to humiliate me in everything. 

I took my position in the middle of the room, joined my 
hands, and raised my eyes; but something said to me, prayer is 
of no avail. I shall receive what is in store for me — not one 
sorrow the less, nor one suffering the more, as Mgr. de Falloux 

There is only one thing to be done— to become resigned. 
1 know it is difficult; but otherwise, where would the merit be? 

1 believe, idiot that I am, that the transports of an ardent 
faith and fervent prayers can effect something. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 115 

God desires a German-like resignation, and I am incapable 
of it. 

Does He think that those who are thus resigned have to 
conquer themselves? 

Oh, no! They are resigned because they have water in 
their veins instead of blood, because it is less trouble. 

Is it any merit to be calm when that calm is natural? If I 
could be resigned, I should obtain everything, for it would be 
sublime. But I can not. It is no longer a difficulty, it is an 
impossibility. During moments of brutishness, I shall be 
resigned. I shall not be so of my own will, but just because 
I am. 

Oh, God, have pity upon me! Give me peace! Give me a 
soul to attach myself to. I am weary, very weary. No, no, 
it is not the storms that I am weary of, but the deceit! 

April i$th. — To air my room, which was full of smoke, I have 
opened the window. For the first time for three long months, 
I have seen a c^ear sky, and the sea, through the trees, sparkling 
in the moonlight. I am so delighted that I am going to write. 
Heavens! how beautiful it is after the dark and narrow streets 
of Rome! A night so calm, so beautiful! Ah, if he were 
here! 

Do you take that for love? 

One can not sleep when it is so lovely! 

Coward, weak and unworthy! unworthy of the least of my 
thoughts! 

Easter Sunday, April 16th. — I don't like Naples. At Rome 
the houses are dark and dirty, but they are palaces in point of 
architecture and antiquity. At Naples, everything is equally 
dirty, and you see only pasteboard houses in the French style. 

There, all the Frenchmen will be furious, but they can quiet 
down. I admire them and love them more than any other 
nation, but I must acknowledge that their palaces will never 
attain the massive, splendid, and graceful majesty of the Italian 
palaces, especially those of Rome and Florence. 



116 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Tuesday, April i&t/i. — At noon we started for Pompeii. We 
went in a carnage, for the road is excellent, and there are 
Vesuvius and the towns of Castellamare and Sorrento to be 
admired. 

The guides at the excavations are excellent. It is a curious 
thing to wander about the streets of this dead city. 

We had taken a chair with bearers, and mamma and I took 
turns in resting. 

The skeletons are frightful; the poor things are in shocking 
attitudes. I looked at the remains of the houses and the fres- 
cos, and tried to re-establish the whole place in my imagina- 
tion, and to re-people the houses and streets. 

What a terrible force must it have been that engulfed a 
whole city! 

I heard mamma speaking of marriage: 

"Woman is made to suffer," she said, "even with the best 
of husbands." 

"Woman before marriage," said I, "is Pompeii before the 
eruption; and woman after marriage is Pompeii after the 
eruption." 

Perhaps I was right! 

I am very tired, nervous, and sad. We shall not return until 
8 o'clock. 

Wednesday, April igth. — See the disadvantage of my posi- 
tion. Pietro, without me, has his club, society, his friends, 
everything in a word, excepting me; while I, without Pietro, 
have nothing. 

I am only for him a distraction. He was for me, every- 
thing. He made me forget my ambition to play a great part 
in the world, and I thought only of him, was occupied only 
with him, too happy to escape my thoughts. 

Whatever may happen to me, I bequeath my journal to the 
public. 

All the hooks that wc read are inventions, where the situa- 
tions arc forced and the characters false, while this is a correct 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF, 117 

photograph of a whole life. Ah, you will say that the photo- 
graph is a bore, while the inventions are amusing!- If you do 
say that, you will give me a very poor idea of your intelli- 
gence. 

I offer you here what has never been seen before. All 
memoirs, all journals, all letters that are published are only 
highly-colored inventions destined to deceive the world. 

I have no interest in practicing deception. I have no politi- 
cal action to veil, no criminal connection to conceal. No one 
is uneasy if I love or if I do not love, if I laugh or if I cry. 
My greatest care is to express myself as exactly as possible. 
I have no illusions in regard to my style or my orthography. 
I write faultless letters; but in the midst of this ocean of 
words, I doubtless let much escape my attention. I make, 
besides, mistakes in my language. I am a foreigner. But if 
you should ask me to express myself in my own tongue, I 
should perhaps do worse still. 

But it was not to say all this that I opened my desk. It was 
to say that it is not yet noon; that I am a prey, more than 
ever, to my tormenting thoughts; that there is an oppression in 
my breast, and that I could willingly scream. Besides, that is 
my natural state. 

The sky is gray, the Chiaja is traversed only by cabs and 
dirty pedestrians, and the stupid trees planted on each side 
shut out all view of the sea. At Nice, on the Promenade des 
Anglais, there are villas on one side and on the other the sea, 
which breaks without restraint upon the pebbles. Here, there 
are houses on one side, and on the other a sort of garden, which 
is continued along the street which separates it from the sea, 
from which it is itself separated by a rather large space of 
barren ground covered with stones and various buildings, and 
offering a sad spectacle of desolation. 

When you reach the square, which terminates the Chiaja and 
which is planted with pretty shrubs, you feel much better, and 
this place is really pretty. Further on, you enter upon the 



118 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

quay; to the left, houses; to the right, the sea, but the sea, 
bounded by a wall with a balustrade and adorned with oyster- 
sellers and shells; then come the gates of the port, the differ- 
ent buildings of the navigation companies, and the port itself; 
but it is no longer the sea, only a dirty place crowded with a 
mass of ugly things. 

Cloudy weather always makes me a little sad; but here, 
to-day, it absolutely oppresses me. 

Within, the death-like silence of our apartment; outside, 
the nerve-racking noise of the cabs and the wagons with their 
little bells, the gray skies, the wind rattling the blinds! Ah, 
I am very miserable, and I should be taken not to the skies, 
nor the sea, but to the earth. 

Friday, April 21st. — When I entered the salon this morning, 
1 was suffocated by the odor of flowers. The room was liter- 
ally full of them. There were flowers from Doenhoff, from 
Altamura, and from Torlonia. Doenhoff sent a table formed 
of flowers, which replaced the usual table; but it was not of 
this that I wanted to speak. 

Listen: Since the soul exists; since it is the soul which ani- 
mates the body; since it is that vaporous substance which 
alone feels, loves, hates, desires; since, finally, it is the soul 
which gives us life, how does it happen, then, that any wound 
in this vile body, or any internal disorder, the abuse of wine 
or of food — how does it happen, then, that such things can put 
the soul to flight? 

I can make a wheel go round, and stop it when I choose. 
That stupid wheel can not stop my hand. In the same way, 
the soul, which sets in motion the various portions of our 
body, ought not to be driven away, it, the essence of reason, 
by a hole in the head, or an indigestion caused by eating lob- 
ster. It ought not to be, but it is. Whence the conclusion 
must be drawn that the soul is a pure invention. And this 
conclusion ( auscs the fall, one after the other, like the scenes 
in a theatre lire, of all our deepest and dearest beliefs. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 119 

Rome, Monday, April 24M. — I had a whole day's occurrences 
to relate, but now I can not remember a thing. - 1 know only 
that we met A — upon the Corso, that he ran up to the car- 
riage, beaming and joyful, and that he asked if we would be at 
home in the evening. We would be, alas! 

He came, and I went to the salon, and began to talk quite 
as naturally as the others. He told me that he had been four 
days in the monastery, and that then he had gone into the 
country. He is now reconciled to all his relations, he is going 
to go into society, be sensible, and think of his future. Finally, 
he told me that I had amused myself at Naples, flirted as 
usual, and that that proved that I did not love him. He also 
told me that he had seen me the other Sunday near the 
Monastery of San Giovanni and Paolo. And to prove that he 
was speaking the truth, he -told me how I was dressed and all 
that I did, and I must acknowledge that his statements were 
correct. 

" Do you love me?" he asked me at last. 

"And you?" 

" Ah, that is always the way with you, you always mock and 
laugh at me!" 

" Suppose I were to say yes!" 

He is entirely changed; one would say that, in twenty days, 
he has become a man of thirty. His whole conversation is 
different and he has become so sensible that it is marvelous. 
He seems to have changed places with a Jesuit. 

"Do you know, I play the hypocrite now, I bow before my 
father, I always agree with him, I am wise, and I think of my 
future." 

To-morrow, perhaps, I shall be able to tell something; but 
to-night, I am too stupid. 

Tuesday, April 25th. — " I will come to-morrow," he said, as 
if to pacify me, "and we will talk of all this seriously." 

" It is useless, Monsieur, I know now how much faith to put 
in your wonderful love. You need not come again," I added, 



120 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

more faintly. " You have vexed me. I bid you good-bye in 
anger and I shall not sleep to-night. And you can boast of 
having put me in a rage — go!" 

"But, Mademoiselle, how odd you are! I will talk to you 
to-morrow, when you are calmer. ,, 

It is he who complains, he who says that I have always 
refused him, always laughed at him, that I have never 
loved him. I should have said the same in his place; but, 
nevertheless, I find him very dignified and self-possessed for a 
man who is really in love. 

Now, I am paid in my own coin, so I am never going to say 
another word on the subject. 

Let him commence it, if he likes. 

It seems to me that he no longer loves me. 

Good! There is a thought which rouses me, which makes 
my blood boil and cold shivers run down my back. 

I like this much better. Oh, yes, at least I am furious, 
furious, furious! 

It rained all the time, and a servant announced Baron Vis- 
conti, who, in spite of his years, is so witty and charming. 
Suddenly, while discussing the Odescalchi marriage, they spoke 
of Pietro. 

" Ah, Madame, the boy, as you call him, is not a match to 
be disdained, for the poor Cardinal is failing rapidly, which, 
one of these days, will make his nephews millionaires, and 
consequently Pietro will be a millionaire." 

" Do you know, Baron, that they tell me the boy is going to 
enter a monastery?" 

"Oh, no, he is thinking of quite another thing, I assure 
you." 

Then they spoke of Rome, and I said how fond I was of it, 
and how I disliked to leave it. 

" Well, remain then." 

" I would like to." 

ik I like to see that your heart loves our city." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 121 

" Oh, speaking of hearts, have you seen mine? Look!" 
and I showed him a silver heart, a nun's ornament. 

" Do you know/' I added, " that they are going to leave me 
in Rome, in a convent?" 

"Oh," said Visconti, "I hope you will remain here in 
another way than that, we shall find a means. / will find a 
means," with a warm pressure of my hand. 

Mamma was radiant, I was radiant, it was quite an aurora 
borealis. 

In the evening, contrary to all expectation, we had numer- 
ous callers, among others, A — . 

The company sat at one table, and I with Pietro at another. 
And we discussed love in general, and Pietro's love in partic- 
ular. His principles are deplorable; or, rather, he is so crazy 
that he has no principles at all. He spoke so lightly of his 
love for me, that I did not know what to think. And then, 
his character is so much like my own, that it is extraordinary. 

I don't know what was said, but at the end of five minutes 
we were no longer quarrelmg; all was explained, and we had 
agreed to marry. At least, he had. I kept silence for the 
most part. 

" Are you going away Thursday? " 

"Yes, and you will forget me." 

"Ah, no, indeed! I shall go to Nice." 

" When? " 

" As soon as I can. At present, it is impossible." 

"Why? Tell me; tell me at once! " 

" My father would not permit me." 

" But you have only to tell him the truth." 

" Certainly, I shall tell him that I am going there on your- 
account; that I love you, and that I wish to marry you, but I 
can not tell him now. You don't know my father; I have been 
forgiven, but I don't dare to ask anything yet." 

"Tell him to-morrow." 

" I shouldn't dare. I have not yet gained his confidence. 



122 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Remember that he has not spoken to me for three years. In 
a month, I shall be in Nice." 

" In a month, / shall not be there." 

" Where are you going? " 

"To Russia. So, I shall go away, and you will forget me." 

" But in fifteen days I shall be at Nice, and then — and then 
we will go away together. I love you, I love you!" he 
repeated, falling on his knees. 

" Are you happy? " I asked, taking his head in my hands. 

" Oh, yes, because I believe in you, I believe in your word." 

"Come to Nice now," I said. 

"Ah, if I could! " 

" Where there's a will, there's a way." 

Thursday, April 27///. — Oh, my God, You Who have been so 
good up to now, deliver me from this, I implore You. 

And God has delivered me. 

At the railway station, I walked up and down the platform 
with the Cardinalino. 

" I love you! " he cried, "and I shall always love you, to my 
misfortune, perhaps." 

" And you can see me go away with utter indifference? " 

"Oh, don't say that! You must not speak so; you don't 
know what I have suffered. Besides, I knew where you were, 
and what you were doing. Since I have seen you, I am com- 
pletely changed, be sure of that; but you have always treated 
me as something to be despised. I have committed follies in 
my life, and so has every one, but that is no reason for treat- 
ing me like a brainless rascal. For yoi^r sake, I have broken 
with the past; for you, I have endured everything; for you, I 
bave made this peace with my family." 

" Not for'me, Monsieur; I don't see what I have to do with 
this peace." 

4k Why. it was done, because I really cared for you." 
"What?" 

11 You always want a detailed and mathematical explanation. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 123 

Certain things ought to be seen at a glance. You have made 
a fool of me." 

" That is not true." 

" Do you love me? " 

"Yes, and listen to this: I am not in the habit of repeating 
things twice. I want to be believed at once. I have never 
said to any man what I say to you. I am very much offended, 
for my words, instead of being received as a favor, are received 
in a very careless and criticising spirit. And you dare to 
doubt what I say? Really, Monsieur, you go too far!" 

He was confused, and tried to excuse himself. We talked 
very little after this. 

"Will you write to me?" he asked. 

" No, Monsieur, I can not, but I will allow you to write." 

"Ah! ah! that is fine love! " he exclaimed. 

"Monsieur," I said, gravely, "don't ask too much. It is a 
very great favor, when a young girl permits a man to write to 
her. If you don't know that fact, I will teach it to you. But 
we must enter the train, so don't let us lose time in vain dis- 
cussion. You will write to me? " 

"Yes; and, in spite of all you say, I feel that I love you 
as I shall never love again. Do you love me? " 

I assented with a motion of the head. 

"You will love me always?" 

I answered as before. 

u Au revoir, Monsieur." 

" Until when? " 

" Till next year." 

"N©!" 

"Then, adieu. Monsieur." 

And without giving him my hand, I entered the carriage, 
where the rest of the party already were. 

"You have not shaken hands with me," said A — , approach- 
ing the window. 

I held out my hand. 



124 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"I love you! " he said, very pale. 

"Au revoir!^ said I, gently. 

" Think sometimes of me," he said, paling still more; " as 
for me, I shall do nothing but think of you." 

"Yes, Monsieur; au revoir" 

The train began to move, and for some moments I could see 
him gazing upon me with a look full of emotion; then he took 
a step or two toward the door, but, as I was still visible, he 
stopped again like an automaton, pulled his hat down over his 
eyes, took another step forward — and then, then we were too 
far to see any more. 

I should have been broken-hearted to leave Rome, to which 
I am so accustomed, if the sight of the moon, at about 4 
o'clock, had not given me an idea. 

"Do you see that crescent?" I asked Dina. 

"Yes," she answered. 

" Well, that crescent will be a very beautiful moon in eleven 
or twelve days." 

"Doubtless." 

" Have you seen the Coliseum by moonlight? " 

"Yes." 

" I have not." 

"I know it." 

"But you don't know, perhaps, that I want to see it." 

" It is quite possible." 

"Yes, and this means, that in ten or twelve days I shall be 
back in Rome, as much for the races as for the Coliseum." 

"Oh!" 

" Yes, I shall go with my aunt. And it will be very pleasant 
with my aunt, without you and mamma. We will drive about, 
and I shall enjoy myself very much." 

" Well," said mamma, " it shall be so. I promise you." And 
she kissed me on both cheeks. 

Friday, April 28///.— I went to sleep and I had frightful 
nightmare dreams. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 125 

At i-i o'clock, I lay down in order to escape the sight of 
the olive trees and the red soil, and at i we arrived at the 
Nice station, to the great delight of my aunt, who was await- 
ing us, together with Mademoiselle Colignon, Sapogenikoff, etc. 

" Do you know," I called to them, before the doors were 
opened, " I am veiy sorry to come back here, but 1 could 
not do otherwise?" 

And then I kissed them all around. 

The house is charmingly furnished; my room is exquisite, 
all upholstered in light-blue satin. When I opened the door 
of the balcony and looked out on our very pretty garden, the 
Promenade, and the sea, I could not help saying aloud: 

" It can not be denied but that there is nothing so splendidly 
simple and so adorably poetic as Nice." 

Thursday, May ^th. — The real season for Nice is the month 
of May. It is beautiful enough to turn one's head. I wan- 
dered out into the garden in the light of the still young moon, 
and listened to the chirp of the crickets and the murmur of 
the waves breaking softly on the sands. 

Naples is enormously praised; as for me, I am sorry, but I 
prefer Nice. Here the sea freely bathes the shore, while in 
the other place, it is hemmed in by a stupid wall with a 
balustrade, and even that wretched shore is obstructed by 
shops, boats, and filth. 

" Think sometimes of me. As for me, I shall do nothing 
but think of you!" 

Pardon him, God, he did not know what he was saying! I 
permit him to write to me and he has not availed himself of 
the permission. Will he even send the promised dispatch to 
mamma? 

Friday, May $th. — What was I saying? Oh," yes, that there 
was no excuse for Pietro's treatment of me. I can not under- 
stand indecision, I who am not in love. 

I have read in novels that a man's love itself often makes 
him appear forgetful and indifferent. 



126 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I wish I could believe the novels. 

I am sleepy and tired, and, in this state, I want to see 
Pietro and hear him speak of love. I would like to imagine 
that he is here. I would like to lose myself in a pleasant 
dream. The reality is dangerous. 

I am bored, and when I am bored, I become very tender- 
hearted. Oh, when will this life of weariness, deceit, envy, 
and vexation end? 

When shall I at last live the life I long for? When married 
to a great name, a great fortune, and a man who is sympathetic, 
for I am not so mercenary as you think. Moreover, if I am 
not so, it is through egotism. 

It would be frightful to live with a man that you detested, 
and neither wealth nor position would be any consolation. 
Ah! God! Holy Virgin! Protect me! 

May 6th. — Do you know? I have an idea — I would be 
perfectly delighted to see Pietro. 

This evening I gave a party, such an one as has not been 
seen foe years in the Rue de France. You know that there 
exists at Nice a custom of turning the May, that is, they hang 
up a wreath and a lantern, and dance underneath singing. 
Since Nice has been French, this custom has fallen more and 
more into disuse, and you see scarcely more than three or 
four lanterns in the whole town. 

Well, I gave them a rossigno; I called it that after the 

Rossigno che vola y the prettiest and most popular song of Nice. 

I had prepared beforehand and hung in the middle of the 

street a large structure of leaves, flowers, and Venetian 

lanterns, 

Triphon (grandpapa's servant) was charged with arranging 
fireworks on the garden wall, and was ordered to light up the 
scene from time to time with Bengal fire. Triphon was not 
overjoyed. All these splendors were accompanied by a harp, 
a flute, and a violin, and washed down with wine in abundance. 
Some good women came to invite us to their terraces, for Olga 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 12? 

and I were looking at the scene alone, perched upon a wooden 
ladder. 

The others went to a neighbor's terrace, and Olga, Marie, 
Dina, and I went into the middle of the street, calling the 
dancers, and trying with success to give spirit to the scene. 

I sang and danced with all the rest, to the delight of the 
good people of Nice, especially the people of the neighbor- 
hood, who all knew me and spoke very kindly of " Mademoi- 
selle Marie." 

As I could not do anything else, I tried to make myself 
popular and that pleased mamma. She did not care for the 
expense. What pleased the crowd especially was, that I sang, 
and said a few words m. patois. 

While I was on the ladder with Olga, who was hanging on 
to my skirts, I was seized with a desire to make a speech; but 
I prudently refrained, for this year at least. 

I watched the dances and listened to the cries, in the dreamy 
state I often fall into. And when the fireworks ended with a 
magnificent "sunburst," we all went home, amidst murmurs 
of gratification. 

Sunday, May *jtk. — One finds a despairing sort of satisfac- 
tion in despising, with reason, the whole world. At least one 
has no illusions. If Pietro has forgotten me, he has offered 
me a deadly insult, and there is one name the more to add to 
the list of those to whom I vow hatred and vengeance. 

Such as it is, the human race pleases me; I like it, and I 
form a par*t of it, and I live with all these people, and on 
them depend my fortune and my happiness. 

All this is stupid. But in this world, all that is not sad is 
stupid, and all that is not stupid is sad. 

To-morrow at 3 o'clock, I go to Rome, partly to distract 
myself, and partly to show A — my contempt, if I can find 
the opportunity. 

Thursday, May 11th. — As I said Tuesday evening, I set forth 
yesterday at 2 o'clock with my aunt. 



128 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

It is a terrible proof of love that I seem to be giving 
Pietro. 

Well, so much the worse! If he thinks that I love him, if 
he thinks such an enormity as that, he is only a fool! 

At 2 o'clock we reached Rome, I jumped into a cab, my 
aunt followed me, the agent of the HOtel de la Ville took our 
papers, and— and — I am in Rome! Heavens! what a happiness! 

Our luggage will not arrive until to-morrow. To go and 
see the return from the races, we were obliged to be contented 
with our traveling dresses. However, I looked very well in my 
gray costume and my fur hat. I took my aunt to the Corso. 
(How delightful it is to see the Corso once more after Nice! ) 

I deafened her with my chattering and explanations, for 
it seemed to me that she saw nothing. 

There was a sensation as I passed the Caccia Club. The 
monk was open-mouthed with astonishment, then he took off 
his hat and smiled to the ears. 

We went to the Villa Borghese, where there was an agricult- 
ural fair. 

We went through the exhibition on foot, admired the flowers 
and the plants, and met Zucchini. There were many people there. 

Everyone was very much surprised to see me appear for the 
third time. I am very well known in Rome. 

Simonetti came up to us, and I presented him to Madame 
Romanoff, and told him that it was by a marvelous chance that 
I was in Rome. 

I made a sign to Pietro to come to me. He was. beaming, 
and looked at me with eyes which showed very clearly that he 
took everything seriously. 

He made us laugh very much, telling us of his sojourn in 
the monastery. He had consented, he said, to go there for 
four days, and, once there, they kept him for seventeen. 

" Why did you fib about it and say that you had been at 
Terracina?" 

" Because I was ashamed to tell the truth." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 129 

" Do your friends at the club know it?" 

" Yes. At first I said that I had been at Terracina, then 
they alluded to the monastery, and I ended by telling every- 
thing, and then I laughed, and everybody laughed. Torlonia 
was furious." 

" Why?" 

" Because I had not told him all about it at first; because I 
had no confidence in him." 

Then he told how, to please his father, he had pretended to 
accidentally let fall from his pocket a rosary, to have it believed 
that he always carried it. I loaded him with jests and imper- 
tinent remarks, which I must confess he bore with a very good 
grace. 

Saturday, May i$th. — I disguise neither my sentiments nor 
my thoughts, and I have not the strength to bear anything with 
dignity, for I have been crying. Even while I write I can hear 
the patter of my tears falling upon the paper, big tears, which 
flow with no difficulty and no contortion of my face. I laid 
down upon my back to keep them in my head, but it was no use. 

Instead of telling what makes me cry, I tell how I cry. And 
how can I say why? I, myself, don't know anything. " What!" 
I said to myself, with my head thrown back upon the sofa, 
"What! is it really thus? Has he then forgotten?" Doubtless, 
since he carried on an indifferent conversation mingled with 
words spoken so low that I could not hear them, and, finally, 
he repeated that he loved me only when near me, that I 
was ice, that he would go to America, that when he saw me he 
loved me, while when away he forgot me. 

I, in the driest possible manner, begged him to speak no 
more to me on that subject. 

Ah! I can not write, and you see, yourself, how I must suffer 
and how I have been insulted. 



I can not write! And yet something commands me to do 
so. Until I have related everything, something torments me. 

9 



130 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I chatted, and made tea as well as I could until half-past 10. 
Then Pietro came. Simonetti went away soon, and we were 
left a company of three. They spoke of my journal, that is 
to say, of certain questions I discuss in it, and A — begged me 
to read him something in regard to the soul and God. Then 
I went into the antechamber and knelt down before the famous 
white box to find what he wanted, while Pietro held the candle. 
But then, while seeking, I came across passages which had a 
common interest for us. I read them, and this lasted nearly 
half an hour. 

Then, when we returned to the salon, he began to relate all 
sorts of anecdotes about Lis life since he was eighteen. 

I listened to everything he said with a mingled feeling of 
terror and jealousy. 

In the first place, his absolute lack of independence chilled 
me, if he should be forbidden to love me, he would obey, I 
am certain. 

His family, the priests, and the monks terrify me. In spite 
of what he has told me of their goodness, I am seized with 
alarm in hearing of their enormous tyranny. Yes, they terrify 
me, and his two brothers also; but it matters very little after 
all; I am still at liberty to accept or refuse him. 

I thank heaven that I am able to use my pen; yesterday it 
was torture to write. I can not tell why. 

All that I have heard this evening, all the conclusions I draw 
from it, and all the things that have happened before, lie heavy 
in my brain. And then, there was the regret of seeing him go 
away this evening; it is so long till to-morrow! I felt a great 
desire to cry at the uncertainty of it, and perhaps with love, too. 

Then, leaning my chin in my left hand, and the left elbow 
supported by my right hand, with frowning brow and disdain- 
ful lip I commenced to reflect on everything, on what I 
wanted and especially on what I did not have. 

Then I began to write, and feeling an irresistible desire to 
dream, 1 stopped an instant, and then went on again! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 131 

Wednesday, May ijfk. — I had a great deal to say yesterday, 
but it is overpowered by what I have to say to-night. 

He spoke to me again of his love; I assured him that it was 
useless, for my relatives would never consent. 

" They would be right," he said, dreamily. " I am not fit to 
make any one happy. I told my mother so, I spoke of you 
and I said: ' She is so religious and good, and I believe in noth- 
ing, and am only a wretch.' Think, I remained seventeen days 
in the monastery; I prayed, I meditated, and I do not believe in 
God; religion has no existence for me; I believe in nothing." 

I looked at him with big, frightened eyes. " You must 
believe," I said, taking his hand; " you must reform and be 
good." 

" It is impossible, and such as I am no one can love me, can 
they?" 

" Um-m-m." 

" I am very unhappy. You can never form any idea of my 
position. Apparently, I am on good terms with my family, but 
it is only in appearance. I detest them all, my father, my 
brothers, even my mother; I am unhappy. And if any one 
should ask me why, I wouldn't know what to say. Oh, the 
priests!" he cried, shaking his fist, grinding his teeth, and 
raising to heaven a face hideous with hatred. " The priests! 
if you knew what they are!" 

It was five minutes before he became calm. 

" I love you, however, and you alone. When I am with you, 
I am happy." 

" Prove it!" 

u How?" 

" Come to Nice." 

" You drive me mad when you say that. You know very 
well that I can not." 

" Why not?" 

" Because my father does not want me to go to Nice, and he 
won't give me any money," 



132 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" I understand that, but if you told him why you wish 
to go?" 

" He would not consent even then. I have spoken to my 
mother and she does not believe me. They are so accustomed 
to my bad conduct that they have no confidence in me any 
more.'* 

" You must turn over a new leaf. You must come to Nice." 

" But what for, if I shall be refused, as you say?" 

" I did not say refused -by me." 

" That would be too much," he said, drawing close to me, 
" that would be a dream." 

" But it would be a beautiful dream, would it not?" 

"Oh, yes!" 

" Then you will ask your father?" 

"Certainly; but he does not wish me to marry. No, I say 
that for these things the confessors must speak to him." 

"Well, make them speak." 

"Good heavens! do you say that?" 

"Yes; you understand that it is not you I care for, but I 
wish a consolation for my wounded pride." 

" I am a wretch, and accursed in this world." 

It is useless, impossible to follow the hundreds of sentences 
spoken. I will simply say that he repeated a hundred times 
that he loved me, in a voice so gentle and with eyes so suppli- 
cating that, of my own free will, I came close to him and we 
spoke like good friends of a multitude of things. I assured 
him that there was a God in heaven, and happiness upon 
earth. I wished him to believe in God; to see Him through 
my eyes, and to pray to Him through my voice. 

"Then," said I, at last, drawing away, "it is finished. Fare- 
well." 

" I love you." 

11 And I believe you," I said, pressing both his hands, "and 
I pity you!" 

kk Will you never love me?" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 133 

" When you are free." 

" When I am dead/' 

"I can. not now, for I pity you and look down on you. If 
they should tell you not to love me, you would obey." 

" Perhaps." 

"It is frightful!" 

"I love you," he said, for the hundredth time, and he turned 
away in tears. I approached the table where my aunt was 
and said to her, in Russian, that the monk had paid me com- 
pliments which I would tell her to-morrow. 

He came back again and I said farewell to him. 

" No, not farewell." 

"Yes, yes, yes! Farewell, Monsieur; I have loved you up 
to this conversation." (1881. — / never loved him y it was all the 
effect of a romantic imagination in search of romance.) 

"Ah, so much the worse! I have said it, I loved you, but I 
was wrong, and I know it." 

" But" — he began. 

"Farewell." 

"You no longer intend to go to Tivoli on horseback to-mor- 
row, then?" 

"No." 

"And it is not fatigue that makes you give it up?" 

" No! Fatigue is only a pretext, I no longer wish to go." 

" No! It is not possible!" he said, holding my hands. 

" Au revoir." 

"You told me to speak to my father, and to come to Nice?" 
said A — , upon the staircase, before going. 

" Yes." 

" I will do so, and I will come, cost what it may, I swear 
to you." 

And he went away. 

For the last three days I have had a new idea, and that is 
that I am going to die. I cough and I complain. The day 
before yesterday I was seated in the salon at 2 o'clock in the 



134 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

morning, and my aunt prayed me to go to sleep; but I did not 
move, saying that I was going to die. 

"Ah!" said my aunt, " if you go on as you have been, I have 
no doubt but that you will die." 

" And so much the better for you. You will have less 
expense and you won't have to pay so much to Laferriere." 
And, with a paroxysm of coughing, I threw myself back on 
the sofa, to the great alarm of my aunt, who ran away to make 
me believe that she was angry. 

Friday, May igth. — My aunt went to the Vatican, and I, not 
being able to be with Pietro, preferred to remain alone. He 
would come about 5 o'clock, and I wanted so much to have 
my aunt still absent. I wanted him to find me alone, as if by 
accident, of course, for I can not show him any more that I 
seek him. 

I sang and it gave me a pain in the chest. 

I posing as a martyr! It is too silly. 

My hair was arranged like that of the Capitoline Venus, and 
I was in white, like Beatrice, with a string of beads and a pearl 
cross around my neck. 

Whatever anyone may say, there is in man a certain need of 
idolatry, of material sensations. God, in His simple grandeur, 
does not suffice. We need images to look at, and crosses to kiss. 

Yesterday evening, I counted the beads of my rosary. There 
are sixty, and I prostrated myself sixty times, each time strik- 
ing my forehead against the floor. I was all out of breath, 
but it seemed to me that I had performed an action agreeable 
to God. It was doubtless absurd, but the intention was good. 

Does God take the intention into account? 

Ah! but I have the New Testament. I will read it. 



Not being able to find the Holy Book, I read Dumas. It is 
not the same thing. 

My aunt returned at 4 o'clock, and at the end of five min- 
utes 1 had artfully persuaded her to go and see the Church of 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 135 

Santa Maria Maggiore. It was half-past 4, and I was 
afraid I had made a mistake in sending her away before 5, 
for I was afraid that she would return too soon. 

When Count A — was announced I was still alone, for my 
aunt decided to visit the Pantheon, as well as Santa Maria 
Maggiore. My heart beat so strongly thai I feared it could be 
heard, as they say in novels. 

He sat down beside me and began by taking my hand, which 
I immediately withdrew. Then he told me that he loved me. 
I repulsed him, smiling politely. 

" My aunt will be back soon," I said, " have patience.'' 

" I have so many things to tell you." 

"Really!" 

" But your aunt will return." 

" Then hurry!" 

" These are serious things." 

" Indeed!" 

" In the first place, you were wrong to write ail those things 
of me." 

" Don't speak of that, Monsieur; I warn you that I am 
, very nervous; and it will be well for you to speak simply, or 
to say nothing." 

" Listen! I have spoken to my mother, and my mother has 
spoken to my father." 

"Well?" 

" I have done right, have I not?" 

" It does not concern me. What you have done, you did 
for yourself." 

" You do not love me." 

" No." 

" And I love you madly." 

" So much the worse for you," said I, smiling, and allowing 
him to take my hands. 

" No, listen," he said, " let us speak seriously; you are never 
serious. I love you. I have spoken to my mother. Be my wife." 



136 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

" At last!" I thought to myself, but I said nothing. 

" Well?" he asked. 

" Well?" I answered, with a smile. 

"You know," he said, encouraged, "that someone must 
manage it all." 

"What?" 

" Yes. I can not do it myself. Some one must take charge 
of it, some dignified, respectable, serious man, who will speak 
to my father, and, in a word, arrange everything. Who shall 
it be?" 

" Visconti," I said, laughing. 

" Yes," said he, very seriously. " I have thought of Vis- 
conti, he is just the man. He is so old that he is no 
longer good for anything except to play Mercury. But," he 
added, " I am not rich, not rich at all. Ah, I wish I were 
a hunchback and had millions!" 

" It would not advance you any in my favor, if you had 
millions." 

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" 

" I think that that is an insult," said I, rising. 

" No, I was not thinking of you; you are an exception." 

" Then, don't speak to me of money." 

" Heavens! how touchy you are! One can never understand 
what you want. Consent, consent to be my wife!" 

He tried to kiss my hand, but I presented to him the cross 
of my rosary, which he kissed; then, raising his head, and look- 
ing at me, he said: 

" How religious you are!" 

" And you believe in nothing." 

" I — I love you. Do you love me?" 

" I don't say such things." 

" Then, for heaven's sake, at least, show it to me in some 
way." 

After an instant's hesitation, I held' out my hand to him. 
"You consent?" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 137 

" Gently," I said, rising; "you see that there are my father 
and my grandfather, who will strongly oppose my marriage 
with a Catholic." 

"Oh, that is still in the way, is it?" 

" Yes, that is still in the way." 

He took me by the arm, and placed me beside him before 
the glass. We made a very handsome couple. 

"We will put Visconti in charge," said A — . 

"Yes." 

"He is the right man. But, as we are young to marry, do 
you think that we shall be happy?" 

" In the first place, my consent is necessary." 

"Certainly. Well, then, if you consent, shall we be happy?" 

"If I consent, I swear by all that is holy that there will 
not be a man in the world happier than you." 

" Then we will be married. Be my wife." 

I smiled. 

"Ah!" he cried, dancing about the room, " how happy I 
shall be! How odd it will be when we have children!" 

"You are mad, Monsieur!" 

" Yes, with love." 

At this moment, the sound of voices was heard on the stair- 
case. I sat down quietly and awaited my aunt, who entered 
the room immediately afterward. 

There was a great weight lifted from my heart. I was very 
gay and A — was in the seventh heaven. 

I was at peace and happy, but I had very many things to 
say and to hear. 

Excepting our apartment, all the rest of the hotel is empty. 
In the evening, we took a candle and wandered about all the 
immense apartments, perfumed still with the ancient grandeur 
of Italian palaces; but my aunt was with us. I did not know 
what to do. 

We stopped more than half an hour in a large yellow salon, 
and Pietro imitated the Cardinal, his father, and his brothers. 



138 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

My aunt amused herself by making Pietro write nonsense 
in Russian. 

" Copy that," I said, taking a book and writing upon the 
first page. 

" What?" 

"Read." 

I pointed out the following ten words: 

" Go away at midnight; I will speak to you below." 

" Do you understand?" I asked, rubbing it out. 

"Yes." 

From that time T was both relieved and singularly uneasy. 
Pietro kept looking at the clock every moment, and I feared 
that my aunt would understand the reason of it. As if she 
could have guessed! Only guilty consciences have such 
fears. 

At midnight, he rose and said good-night to me, squeezing 
my hand hard as he did so. 

" Good-night, Monsieur," said I. 

Our ^yes met, and somehow or other, there seemed to be a 
flash of light. 

" Well, aunt, we leave to-morrow early. I will shut your 
door, so that I shall not disturb you by writing, and I will go 
to bed soon." 

"You promise?" 

"Certainly." 

I shut my aunt's door, and, after a glance in the glass, I 
descended the stairs, and Pietro glided like a shadow from the 
half-open door. 

"When one loves, one is silent and yet says so much. I, at 
least, love you!" he murmured. 

I was amusing myself by acting a scene from a romance, 
and, involuntarily, I thought of Dumas. 

kw I am going away to-morrow. We must have a serious 
talk, and I was forgetting it." 

ik It is impossible to think of anything now." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 139 

"Come," said I, closing the door, so that there was only a 
feeble ray of light- left. 

And I sat down upon the last step of the little staircase 
which was at the end of the passage. 

He knelt down beside me. 

Every moment I thought I heard some one coming, and I 
held my breath and trembled at every drop of rain that beat 
against the windows. 

"It is nothing," said my impatient lover. 

"It is easy for you, Monsieur. If any one should come, 
you would be flattered by it, while I should be ruined." 

With my head bent down, I glanced at him from under my 
lids. 

"With me?" he said, misunderstanding the meaning of my 
words, "With me? I love you too much; you are safe." 

I held out my hand to him when I heard these noble words. 

" Have I not always behaved properly and respectfully?" 

" Oh, no, not always. Once you even wished to kiss me." 

" Don't speak of that, please. Oh, I have asked you so 
many times to forgive me! Be good; forgive me!" 

" I have forgiven you," I said, gently. 

I felt so contented. Is this, I thought, the way one feels 
when one is in love? Is it serious? It seemed to me that he 
could not be in earnest, he was so preternaturally grave and 
tender. 

I lowered my eyes before the extraordinary brilliancy of his. 

"But see, again we have forgotten to talk of our plans; we 
must be serious and talk." 

"Yes, let us talk." 

" In the first place, what can we do, since you are going 
away to-morrow? Do not go, I implore you, do not go!" 

"I must; my aunt — " 

"She is so kind! Oh, stay!" 

" She is kind, but she will not consent. So, good-bye — per- 
haps forever." 



140 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" No, no, you have consented to be my wife!" 

"When?" 

" Toward the end of the month I shall go to Nice. If you 
would consent to let me borrow some money from someone, 
I would go to-morrow." 

" No, I do not wish it; I would not see you in that case." 

"But you can not prevent me from taking a pleasure trip to 
Nice?" 

"Yes, yes, yes, I forbid you!" 

" Then I must wait until my father gives me some money." 

" I hope that he will be reasonable/' 

" He is not opposed to our marriage, my mother has spoken 
to him; but suppose he does not give me any money? You 
know how miserably dependent upon him I am." 

"Demand the money!" 

"Advise me, you who reason like a book, who speak of the 
soul, and of God; advise me." 

" Pray to God," I said, presenting my cross, and ready to 
laugh if he ridiculed my advice, or to keep my look of gravity 
if he took it seriously. 

He looked in my impassive face, placed the cross against 
his forehead, and bowed his head in prayer. 

" I have prayed," he said. 

"Really?" 

"Really. But let us continue. So we will put the whole 
matter in the hands of Baron V — ." 

" Very well." 

I said: Very well, and I thought: Conditionally. 

" But," I added, " it can not be arranged immediately." 

" In two months?" 

kl Arc you jesting?" I asked, as if it were the most impossible 
thing in the world. 

k4 In six, then?" 

" No." 

' k In a year?" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 141 

" Yes, in a year — you will wait?" 

" If necessary, and provided that I can see you every day." 

"Come to Nice, for, in a month, I am going to Russia." 

" I will follow you." 

"That can not be." 

"Why not?" 

" My mother would not allow it." 

" No one can prevent me from traveling." 

" Don't talk nonsense." 

"But how I love you!" 

I leant toward him, in order not to lose a single one of his 
words. 

" I will love you always," he said; " Be my wife." 

We then talked loving nonsense, nonsense which becomes 
divine, if one really loves. 

"Yes, truly," he said, "it would be beautiful to pass our 
lives together — yes, to pass my life with you, always with you, 
at your feet, adoring you. We will grow old together, old as the 
hills, and we will love eactvother always. Yes, yes, yes — dear!" 

He found no other words; but these, so commonplace, 
became, in his mouth, a caress. 

He looked at me with his hands clasped together. Then 
we spoke sensibly awhile; and then he threw himself at my 
feet, and exclaimed, in a voice stifled with emotion, that I 
could not love him as he loved me, that it was impossible! 

He proposed that we should tell each other our secrets. 

" Oh, yours, Monsieur, do not interest me." 

"Tell me how many times you have been in love, Made- 
moiselle." 

"Once." 

"With whom?" 

" A man whom I did not know, whom I had seen a dozen 
times perhaps in the street, and who did not know that I was 
in existence. I was twelve years old then, and I never spoke 
to him." 



142 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"This is a fairy-tale." 

"It is the truth." 

"Why, it is a romance, a fantasy; it is impossible; it is a 
shadow!" 

" Yes, but I do not feel ashamed that I loved him, or that 
he became to me a sort of divinity. I can compare him to no 
one, and, as a matter of fact, there is no one worthy to be 
compared to him." 

"Where is he now?" 

" I don't even know. He married, and he lives far away." 

"What nonsense!" 

And my absurd Pietro looked somewhat disdainful and 
incredulous. 

"But it is true; I love you now, but in quite a different way." 

" I give you all my heart, and you give me only half of 
yours," he said. 

" Don't ask too much, and be satisfied with what you 
receive." 
■ " But this is not all? Isn't there something else?" 

"That is all." 

" Pardon me, and allow me not to believe you this time." 

(Notice his depravity.) 

"You must believe the truth." 

" I can not." 

"So much the worse for you!" I exclaimed, in anger. 

"It is beyond my comprehension," he said. 

"That is because you are very depraved." 

" Perhaps." 

"Don't you believe that I have never permitted anyone to 
kiss my hand?" 

" Pafdon me, but I do not." 

"Sit down beside me," I said, "let us talk, and tell me 
everything." 

He told me all that had been said to him, and all he had said 

himself. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 143 

" You will not be angry," he said. 

"I shall be angry only if you conceal anything from me." 

"Well, you understand that my family is very well known 
here." 

"Yes." 

"And you are strangers in Rome." 

"Well?" 

"Well, my mother has written to several people in Paris." 

" That is quite natural; and what do they say of me?" 

" Nothing yet; but they can say what they like, I shall 
always love you." 

" I have no need of indulgence." 

"Now," he said, "there is religion." 

" Yes, religion." 

"Oh," he said, in the calmest manner possible, "become 
a Catholic." 

I cut him short with a few very severe words. 

" Do you want me to change my religion, then?" exclaimed 
A—. 

" No. If you should do that, I should despise you." 

As a matter of fact, I should have been displeased only on 
account of the Cardinal. 

" How I love you! How beautiful you are! How happy we 
shall be!" 

My only answer was to take his head in my hands and kiss 
him on the forehead, the eyes, the hair. 

I did it more for his sake than my own. 

"Marie! Marie!" cried my aunt, from above. 

" What is it?" I asked, calmly, putting my head through the 
door of the apartment, so that my voice should appear to come 
from my room. 

" It is 2 o'clock, you must go to sleep!" 

"I will." 

" Are you undressed?" 

"Yes; let me write." 



144 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"Go to bed!" 

" Yes, yes." 

I went down again and found the place empty; the poor fel- 
low had hidden himself under the staircase. 

" Now," he said, resuming his place, " let us talk of the 
future." 

"Goon." 

" Where shall we live? Do you like Rome?" 

"Yes." 

" Then we will live in Rome; but not with my family, but by 
ourselves." 

" Of course, by ourselves. In the first place, mamma would 
not permit me to live with my husband's family." 

" She is quite right. And then, my family has such extra- 
ordinary ideas, it would be awful! We will buy a little house 
in the new quarter." 

" I should prefer a large one." 

And I made up a face behind his back. 

"Well, a large one, then." 

And we went on, or rather, he did, to make arrangements 
for the future. 

It was plain that he was in a hurry to change his condition. 

"We will go into society," said I, " and live in a great deal 
of style, shall we not?" 

" Oh, yes; go on!" 

"Yes, when two people have decided to pass their lives 
together, they must do it as pleasantly as possible." 

" Most certainly. You know all about my family — but 
there is the Cardinal!" 

" You must make your peace with him." 

" Certainly, and I shall do so. You know the greater part 
of his fortune will go to the one who first has a son; so, we 
must have a son as soon as possible. Only I am not rich 
now." 

" What matters it?" I answered, a little shocked; but, with an 



i 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 145 

effort, refraining from making a gesture of contempt. It was 
a trap, perhaps. 

Then, as if wearied of this serious discourse, he bent his 
head. 

" Occhi neri" I said, covering his eyes with my hand, for the 
look in them frightened me. 

He threw himself at my feet, and said so much and so much 
that I became more on my guard than ever, and made him sit 
down by my side. 

No, it is not a real love. In a real love there would be 
nothing mean or vulgar to say. I felt dissatisfied. 

"Be sensible!" 

"Yes," he said, clasping his hands, "I am sensible, I am 
respectful, I love you." 

Did I really love him, or had I lost my head? Who Could 
tell? And yet, from the moment that doubt exists, there is no 
longer any doubt. 

"Yes, I love you," I said, taking both his hands and press- 
ing them warmly. 

He answered nothing. Perhaps he did not understand the 
importance I attached to my words, or perhaps he thought 
them quite natural. The loud beating of my heart was stilled. 
It was certainly a delicious moment, for he remained as 
motionless as I, and without speaking a word. 

But I became frightened, and I told him that he must go. 

" It is time." 

"Already? Stay a minute longer near me. How happy we 
are like this! Do you love me?" he said. "And will you 
love me always — say, will you love me always?" 

There was a shade of familiarity in his tone which displeased 
,me, and seemed to me humiliating. "Always!" I answered, 
i dissatisfied as I was; " always, and do you love me?" 

" Oh, how can you ask such a question? Oh, my darling, I 
ji wish we could stay here forever!" 

"We should die of hunger," I replied, humiliated at the 
10 



146 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

caressing name he had called me, and not knowing how to 
answer. 

"But what a beautiful death! Then, in a year?" he said, 
eating me up with his eyes. 

" In a year," I repeated, mechanically. I acted like a girl 
penetrated with love, full of it, inspired, grave, and solemn. 

At this moment I heard my aunt, who, seeing the light still 
burning in my room, was becoming impatient. 

" Do you hear?" I said. 

We kissed one another, and I fled without a look backward. 
It was like a scene from a novel that I have read somewhere. 
Pshaw! I am disgusted with myself! Shall I always be my 
own critic, or is it because I don't love him at all? 

" It is 4 o'clock!" called my aunt. 

"In the first place, aunt, it is only ten minutes past 2, and 
in the second place, let me alone." 

I undressed, thinking: If someone had seen me go down 
the stairs at midnight, and come up again at 2 o'clock, after 
two hours spent absolutely alone with one of the most dissi- 
pated of Italians, that someone would not believe the good 
God, if He should take the fancy to descend from heaven and 
declare how innocent it was. 

I, myself, in the place of that someone, would not believe, 
and yet see! Can one distrust appearances enough? We often 
judge by them, and draw certain conclusions, when there is 
really almost nothing. 

" It is frightful! You will die, sitting up so late," called my 
aunt. 

II Listen," I said, opening her door; " don't scold or I won't 
tell you anything." 

-What is it? Oh, what a girl!" 

" In the first place, I have not been writing. I have been 
with Pietro." 

" Where, you unhappy girl?" 
" Downstairs." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 147 

"How dreadful!' 1 

" Ah, if you talk like that you shall hear nothing!" 

"You have been with A — ?" 

" Yes." 

"Well," she said, in a voice which made me tremble, "when 
I called you just now, I knew it." 

" How?" 

" I had a dream, in which your mother appeared to me, and 
said: ' Don't leave Marie alone with A — V " 

A cold shiver ran down my back as I comprehended the 
real danger I had been in. I expressed my fears that slanders 
would be written to Nice. 

"There is nothing to say," said my aunt, "and if people 
dare to speak slanders, they don't dare to write them." 

Nice, Tuesday, May 2$d. — I would like to be certain of one 
thing. Do I love him or do I not? 

I have allowed myself to think so much of greatness and 
wealth that Pietro seems to me a very insignificant person. 

Ah! H— ! 

Suppose I wait! Wait for what? A millionaire prince, an 
H — . But if no one should come! 

I try to persuade myself that A — is very good style; but, 
when I see him close, he does not seem so at all. 

This is a sad day! I began Mademoiselle Colignon's portrait 
upon a background of pale-blue draperies. It is all sketched in, 
and I am really pleased with myself and with my subject, who 
makes an admirable model. 

I know very well that it is too soon to hear from A — , and 
yet I am uneasy. 

To-night, I love him. Shail I do well to accept him? As 
long as the love lasts it will be well, but afterward? 

I really fear that mediocrity would drive me mad. I reason 
and discuss as if I were mistress of the situation. Ah! misery 
of misery! 

To wait! To wait for what? 



148 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

And if nothing comes? Bah! with my face, something will 
come, and the proof is — that I am scarcely sixteen, and I have 
already had two chances and a half to become a countess. 

The half means Pietro. 

Wednesday, May 24th. — This evening, when retiring, I kissed 
mamma. 

" She kisses like Pietro," she said, laughing. 

" Has he ever kissed you?" 

" He has kissed you*' said Dina, with a laugh, thinking that 
she was saying the most awful thing, and causing me keen 
regret, almost shame. 

"Oh, Dina!" said I, with such an air that both mamma and 
my aunt cast on her a look of reproach and displeasure. 

" Marie kissed by a man! Marie, the proud, the reserved, 
the haughty! Marie, who has made such fine speeches on that 
subject!" 

This caused me great inward shame. 

Indeed, why was I false to my principles? I will not admit 
that it was through weakness, through passion. If I admitted 
that, I should no longer respect myself. I can not say that it 
was through love. It is enough to be thought unapproachable. 
People are so accustomed to see me so, that they would not 
believe anything .else, even if they saw it with their own eyes, 
and I have said so many severe things in regard to the propri- 
eties of life, that I would not believe it myself if it were not 
for this journal. 

Moreover, a girl should allow herself to be approached only 
by a man of whose love she is certain, for he will not betray 
her; while, with men who are simply flirting, she must be 
covered with sharp points, like a porcupine. 

Be free with a serious, loving man; but be severe with a man 
of free manners! 

Heavens! how glad I am that I have written exactly what I 
think. 

Friday, May 26//1. — My aunt said that A — was only a child. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 149 

"That is true," said mamma. 

These words, which are perfectly just, show me that I 
have sullied myself for nothing (for I have sullied myself), and 
without either interest or love to excuse me. It is torturing! 

After his departure in Rome, I looked in the glass, thinking 
that my lips had changed color. No one is so sensitive as I. 
Since my face was sullied, I feel as soiled as after a twenty-four 
hours' journey in a railway train. 

A — will have the right to say that I loved him, and that I am 
very unhappy at this broken engagement. 

A broken engagement is always a stain on the life of a young 
girl. 

Everyone will say.that we were in love; but no one will say 
that the refusal came from me. We are neither popular nor 
powerful enough for that; besides, appearances will justify 
those who talk. It enrages me! 

I should never have gone so far, if V— had not said these 
words: " Oh, my child, you are still very young! " Indeed,. 
I needed to hear all his offers of marriage, in order to appease 
my wounded pride. Notice that I never said anything posi- 
tive; I left it to him to speak; but, as I allowed him to take 
my hands and kiss them, the presumptuous young man did not 
notice my manner, but happy and excited, suspected nothing. 

I know well that he was serious; but I did not expect that the 
family and all these people would .make such a rumpus about 
it. I did not expect it, because I was not speaking seriously. 

I must say, that I think man is a sack filled with conceit and 
covered with vanity. One thing consoles me a little; before 
the grand explanation, he often told me that he suffered much, 
and that I made him very unhappy with my coquetries and my 
icy heart. This is some consolation, but it is not enough. 



They say that the blonde woman is the poetical woman; 
but I say that the blonde woman is the material woman, par 
excellence. 



150 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

Look at the golden hair, the blood-red lips, the deep-gray 
eyes, and the rosy complexion that Titian paints so well, and 
tell me the thoughts that come to your mind. Moreover, 
we have Venus among the pagans, and Magdalen among the 
Christians — both blonde. While the woman who is a brunette, 
who is really as much of an anomaly as a blonde man, the 
dark woman, with her eyes like velvet, and her ivory skin, we 
can think of as pure and divine. 

There is a beautiful picture of Titian's in the Borghese Pal- 
ace, called " Pure Love and Impure Love." Pure love is a 
woman with rosy cheeks and dark hair, looking with a lovely 
expression at her child, whom she is bathing in a basin. 
Impure love is a blonde, with hair of reddish gold, leaning 
against something — I forget what — and with her arms crossed 
above her head. Moreover, the normal woman is light, and 
the nor??ial man is dark. 

The contrary varieties are sometimes admirable, but they 
are anomalies. 

I shall never see anyone like the Duke of H — . He is tall 
and strong; he has hair of the hue of red gold, and a mus- 
tache of the same color; his eyes are gray, small but 
piercing, and his mouth is an exact copy of that of the Apollo 
Belvidere. 

And there is, in his whole person, an air of such grandeur 
and majesty, of haughtiness even, and indifference to all 
others. 

I see him, perhaps, with eyes prejudiced by love. 

Bah! I don't think so! 

How is it possible to love a very thin, ugly, dark man, with 
beautiful eyes indeed; but, with unformed manners, and no 
style at all, after a man like the duke, even after a lapse of 
three years? And, remember, that three years, from thirteen 
to sixteen, in the life of a young girl, are three centuries. 

So I love no one but the duke! He will not be proud of it; 
in fact, it will make little difference to him, one way or the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 151 

other. I often compose stories, in which I have as characters 
men I know, and men I do not know, and not even to an 
Emperor could I say, " I love you " with conviction. There 
are some to whom I could not say it at all. Stop there! I have 
said it in reality. 

Heavens! yes; but I thought it so little, that it is not worth 
mentioning. 

Sunday, May 2%th. — After my walk, returned home and sat 
down at the window. It is odd, but nothing seems changed. 
It seems to me that it is last year. Never have the songs of 
Nice appeared so charming to me; the chirp of the crickets, 
the murmur of the fountain, the distant song, and all this vul- 
garized by the noise of a prosaic carriage. 

I am reading Horace and Tibullus. The latter speaks only 
of love, and that suits me. And then I have the Latin and 
French text side by side; that is good exercise for me. If 
only all this matrimonial matter, that I have so foolishly stirred 
up, does not injure me! I am afraid of it! 

I ought to have promised nothing to A — . I ought to have 
said to him: 

" I thank you, Monsieur, for the honor that you have done 
me, but I can not say anything to you until I have consulted 
my family. Let your people present the matter before mine, 
and we shall see. As for me," I might have added, to soften 
this answer, " I have nothing against it." 

This, accompanied by one of my pleasant smiles and my 
hand to kiss, would have been sufficient; I should not have 
compromised myself; they would not be talking in Rome, and 
all would be well. I have sense enough, but it always comes 
too late. 

-It would doubtless have been better for me to have made 
him some such fine answer; but that would have lost me so 
much pleasure, and then, life is short, and then— ah! there is 
always an "and then." I was wrong not to have made my 
fine answer, but then I was so troubled. Sensible people will 



152 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

say, yes, I was wrong; sentimental people will say, no, I was 
not. 

Wednesday, May $ist. — Has not some one said that great 
minds think alike? I have been reading La Rochefoucauld, 
and I find in him many things that I have written here. I, 
who thought that I had found something new, and yet they 
are only things that have been known and said such a long 
time. Then I read, also, Horace, La Bruy&re, and still another 
writer. 

I am alarmed about my eyes. When I paint, I am obliged 
to stop very often, as my sight fails me. I use my eyes 
too much, for I pass ail my time in painting, reading, and 
writing. 

This evening I reviewed my classics and that kept me occu- 
pied; and then I discovered a very interesting work upon Con- 
fucius, with a Latin and French translation. There is nothing 
like an occupied mind; work, especially-brain-work, fights and 
conquers everything. 

I can not understand women who pass their time in knitting 
or embroidering, the hands busy and the mind idle. There 
must come a host of useless, dangerous thoughts, and if there 
is any special thing weighing upon the heart, the mind will 
dwell upon that and produce disastrous results. 

If I were peaceful and happy, I could work with my hands, 
possibly, and think of my happiness. No, then I would want 
to think of it with my eyes closed and would be incapable of 
doing anything whatever. 

Ask all those who know me what they think of my temper- 
ament, and they will tell you I am the gayest, most light- 
hearted, and the happiest girl in the world, as well as the most 
self-reliant; for I take great pleasure in appearing radiant and 
proud, impregnable in every way, and I willingly enter into 
discussions of all sorts, both serious and playful. 

In these pages, my inner self appears; externally, I am quite 
another being. One would say that I had never been crossed 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 153 

in my life, and that I was accustomed to be obeyed by men 
and things. 

Saturday, June $d. --Just now, as I left my study, I received 
such a ghastly fright. I saw by my side a woman clothed in a 
long white robe, a light in her hand, her eyes fixed on me, and 
with her head bent plaintively forward, like the phantoms of 
the German legends. Do not be frightened, it was only my 
own reflection in a mirror! 

Oh, I am afraid, I am afraid that some physical ill will follow 
these mental tortures! Why has everything turned against me? 

Forgive me for crying, oh, God! There are people more 
unhappy than I; there are people who are in want of bread, 
while I sleep under lace coverlids; there are people who 
bruise their feet upon the stones of the streets, while I walk 
upon carpet; there are people who have only the sky over 
them, while I have above my head a ceiling of blue satin. 
Perhaps, oh, God! you are punishing me for my tears; grant, 
then, that I may weep no more. 

To all that I have suffered already is now added a personal 
shame, a shame that eats up my heart. 

" Count A — asked her hand in marriage, but his family 
opposed the match; he changed his mind, and withdrew." 

See how good impulses are rewarded! 

Oh, if you knew what feelings of despair take possession 
of my being, what unspeakable sadness I feel, when I look 
about me! Everything I touch vanishes, crumbles! 

And again my imagination works, and again I seem to hear: 
" Count A — asked her hand in marriage," etc. 

Sunday, June ^th. — When Jesus cured the lunatic, His disci- 
ples asked Him why, when they tried, they could not cast out 
devils, and Jesus answered them: " Because of your unbelief; 
for, verily I say unto you: If ye have faith as a grain of 
mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain: Remove hence 
to yonder place, and it shall remove; and nothing shall be 
impossible unto you." 



154 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

As I read these words, it seemed as if a great light broke 
in upon me, and, for the first time, perhaps, I believed in God. 
I rose, a changed being; I joined my hands, I raised my 
eyes, I smiled, I was in an ecstasy. 

Never, never will I doubt again, not in order to deserve 
something, but because I am convinced of what I believe. 

Up to the time I was twelve years old, I was spoiled, all my 
wishes were granted, but my education was neglected. At 
twelve I asked for masters, they were given to me, and I, myself, 
arranged the schedule of my studies. I owe everything to 
myself. 

After this enthusiastic outburst, I was afraid of falling into 
exaggeration, afraid of the convent. Oh, no, I was trans- 
formed, I was overflowing with joy, I slept well, and I awoke 
more calm. 

Monday, June $th. — Dina, Mademoiselle Colignon, and I 
remained until 10 o'clock upon the terrace. It was bright 
moonlight and the whole sea was bathed in the rays. I dis- 
cussed friendship and the relations one ought to have with 
one's fellow-beings. I made my profession of faith. The sub- 
ject was brought up because of the Sapogenikoffs, who have 
not yet written. 

Mademoiselle Colignon's admiration for them, everybody 
knows; besides, she must, perforce, adore someone; she is the 
most romantic and most sentimental woman in the world. She 
likes to prove her friendship by blind confidence. 

I, the contrary. 

Think, then, how unhappy I should be if I had vowed a 
great friendship to the Sapogenikoffs. 

One never regrets a kindness, a gentleness, an act of amia- 
bility, a heartfelt impulse, except when one is repaid with 
ingratitude. And it is a very great sorrow for a person who 
has any heart, to know that the sympathy one has felt, the 
friendship one has had for someone, is wasted. 

"Oh, Marie, I do not agree with you!" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 155 

" Now, listen to me, Mademoiselle. Take me, for instance, 
who exhaust myself in explaining to you something, wear my- 
self out reasoning with you, and when I have spoken, argued, 
and reasoned, I find that you are no nearer agreeing with me 
than before." 

"Oh, that, certainly !" 

" I don't accuse you, I accuse no one of anything, because 
I expect nothing of any one. And the contrary of ingratitude 
is what would astonish me. I assure you that it is much better 
to look at life and men as I do, to accord them no place in your 
heart, and to use them like the steps of a ladder to ascend by." 

"Marie! Marie!" 

" Well, what would you have? You are differently con- 
stituted from me. Wait — I am sure that you have spoken 
disparagingly of me to the Sapogenikoffs and others. I am as 
sure of that as if I had heard it with my own ears. And 
yet, I am on the same terms with you as I was before, and 
shall be always." 

"Reading philosophical works has given you such ideas; 
you distrust everybody." 

" I do not afr-trust; I simply trust no one; there is a great 
difference." 

" No, Marie, you feel friendship for no one." 

" But think what it would be if I did! Suppose, that instead 
of having taken Marie and Olga for what they are, for good 
girls who laugh with me, not making fun of me as I do 
of them — suppose that I had become devotedly attached to 
Olga. I write to her from Rome and she answers me three 
words at the end of three weeks; I write her again, and this 
time she does not answer me at all. What do you say to that? 
And it is not the first example!" 

" But how can you demand anything of your friends, if you 
give them nothing?" 

" You don't understand me. I give them all the amiable 
things possible. I am ready to do for them all that it is in 



156 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

my power to do; let one of them demand of me anything, and 
I will do it with pleasure; but I do not give my friends my 
heart, for, believe me, it is very annoying to give that for 
nothing." 

" One can never be annoyed if one does right, if one does 
one's duty." 

" Friendship is not a duty. You do neither right nor wrong 
in giving your friendship. Friendship like yours is not sensi- 
tive, for it is a perpetual need of your nature; but, when it 
comes from the bottom of the heart, it is very painful to have 
it repaid with ingratitude." 

"If any one is ungrateful, so much the worse for him." 

"See what it is to be egotistical. Once I thought that I 
loved everybody; but I see that that universal love was only a 
universal indifference. I have the best of feelings toward my 
fellow-beings. I see that they are bad, which renders me 
indulgent to a supreme degree. Have you read Epictetus? 
I think that, as far as friendship is concerned, one should be a 
stoic. You receive a shock, and you can not prevent yourself 
from making a movement of surprise, of fear; that does not 
depend on yourself; but it does depend on yourself to acqui- 
esce or not in your first sentiments. One can not prevent 
one's self from feeling certain preferences, but one can prevent 
one's self from acquiescing in them." 

" These readings of yours lead to atheism; you will end, 
Marie, by believing in nothing." 

" Oh, no! If you knew my thoughts, you would not say so." 

" All philosophers are bad to read." 

" Not when one has a well-balanced mind. But I will say 
this, taking everything into consideration, there is only one 
thing that is worth anything in this world (I speak of matters 
of sentiment) and that is love." 

"Yes." 

"There is nothing in the world that gives greater pleasure 
than to love and to be loved." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 15? 

"That is true." 

"And yet, do not let us analyze the matter too closely, for 
pity's sake. Let us take only the pleasure that is given us, 
and that we give. Love is a divine thing in itself, I mean- 
while it lasts; it renders a man perfect toward the. object 
loved; devotion, tenderness, passion, constancy, sincerity, all 
are there. Let us analyze the love, then, but never the man. 
Man can be compared to a grotto. One finds there humidity 
or foulness in the depths of it, or, perhaps, an exit, that is to 
say, there is no depth at all. All this does not prevent me 
from loving my fellow-beings." 

"You can not enjoy anything, if you are indifferent to 
everything." 

"Wait, wait, I am not indifferent, but I judge people only 
by their value." 



Mamma wept to-day, and my aunt's face wore a troubled 
expression; they had been speaking of me, and of all my 
torments. 

I returned home, with my arms hanging down, my eyes 
fixed, and my brows drawn together in a frown. I was 
stifling in spite of the blue sky, the sparkling fountain, the 
medlar trees all covered with fruit, and the pure air. I walked 
on, without taking any notice of anything. 

Why not suppose that I love him, all unworthy as he is? 

Heaven! Explain to me what this man is, and what is this 
love! 

All must be crushed out of me — conceit, pride, and love. 

Tuesday, June 6th. — I read over yesterday; there is nothing 
but sorrow and tears. 

Toward 2 o'clock, I was enough recovered to feel no more 
anger, and to sigh only with disgust. These thoughts are 
unworthy; one should remember injuries only when one is in a 
position to be avenged. To think of them is to accord too 
much importance to unworthy people; it is lowering to one's 



158 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

self; so it is not of the people that I think, but of myself, of 
my position, and the thoughtlessness of my relations. For all 
these evils have come from the latter. 

If the A — s had raised the question of religion, that would 
only have amused me; and I am sure, that if they came now 
and begged me'to take Pietro, I would not take him. 

But it is this shameful idea that they have been told evil 
things of us! 

For everybody has spoken of this marriage, and it is very 
certain that they will not say that the refusal comes from me. 
Moreover, they will be right. Did I not consent? Oh, if I 
could drag him away, keep him under all circumstances! I do 
not repent; and, if it has turned out badly, it is not my fault. 

People do not know us; they hear a word here, a word 
there; they talk, they exaggerate, they invent! Oh, heaven! 
and to be able to do nothing! 

Understand, I am not complaining, I am simply stating 
facts. 

I thoroughly despise the whole world; therefore, I can not 
complain, or be angry with anyone. 

Such love as I have imagined, does not exist, then? It is 
only a fancy, an ideal! 

Supreme modesty, supreme purity are then only words that 
I have invented? 

So, when I went down to speak to him, the night before I 
left Rome, he saw in my action simply an assignation. 

When I lent upon his arm, he trembled only with desire! 
When I looked at him, seriously and earnestly, as an ancient 
priestess, he saw only a woman and an appointment! 

And I— did I not love him? No! or, rather, I loved him only 
because of his love for me. 

But, as I am incapable of cowardice in love, I loved and 
felt as if it was I, myself, who loved him. 

It was exaltation, fanaticism, myopia, stupidity — yes, stu- 
pidity. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 159 

If I had more sense, I should have understood better the 
character of the man. 

He loved me as well as he could. I should have been more 
discerning, and understood that pearls must not be cast before 
swine. 

The punishment is hard — illusions forever destroyed, and 
remorse for my own actions; I was wrong to think as I did. 
I must be like others — prosaic and commonplace. 

It is, doubtless, my great youth, which has made me do sense- 
less things. What are these ideas of the other world? They 
are not understood, for the world has not changed. 

There, I fall into the common error, and blame the world 
for the villainy of one alone. Because one person has been a 
coward, I deny all greatness of soul and mind. 

I deny the love of .this man, because he has done nothing 
for this love. Suppose they have threatened to disinherit him 
and turn him out with a curse, should that prevent him from 
writing to me? No, no! He is a coward! 

Thursday, June &tk. — The philosophical books surprise me. 
They are products of imagination which overthrow every- 
thing. In time, and by reading much, I shall get used to 
them, but at present they take away my breath. 

What do you think of Fourier? And then this idea of 
Jouffroys: "The soul is scattered abroad under the pressure 
of sensation, and then returns to its shell, when the object is 
taken away." It is surprising, but stupid. 

When the fever of reading takes possession of me, I become 
wild, and it seems to me that I shall never read enough. I 
long to know everything, and my head seems splitting, and I 
am like one enveloped in a cloud of ashes and chaos. 

I hasten madly to read Horace. 

Oh, when I think that there are lucky people who are full of 
life, who dress, laugh, dance, talk, love, in short, give them- 
selves up to all the delights of a worldly existence, while I 
rust at Nice! 



160 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I am resigned enough, however, so long as I do not remem- 
ber that one lives but once. Just think, one lives but once, and 
life is so short! 

When I think of that, I become mad, and my brain seems 
bursting with despair. 

One lives but once! And I am losing this precious life, hid- 
den in a house, seeing no one! 

One lives but once! And my life is being spoiled! 

One lives but once! And I am forced to waste my time! And 
the days roll by, roll by never to return, and shorten my life! 

One lives but once! Must this life, short as it is, be short- 
ened still more, spoiled, stolen; yes, stolen by outrageous cir- 
cumstances? 

Oh, Lord! have pity! 

Friday, June gt/i. — As I read over my stay at Rome and my 
anxieties over Pietro's disappearance, I am astonished that I 
wrote with so much feeling. I read and shrug my shoulders. 
I ought not to be astonished — I who know how easily I am 
affected. 

There are moments when I do not know what I detest, what 
I love, what I desire, nor what I fear. Then everything is 
indifferent to me; I try to analyze everything, and then there 
is such a disturbance in my brain that I shake my head, I stop 
my ears, and I prefer my brutishness to these searching analyses 
of myself. 

Saturday, June 10th. — " Do you know," I said to the doctor, 
" that I spit blood, and I must be taken care of?" 

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" replied Walitzky, " if you continue to 
sit up every night until 3 o'clock in the morning, you will have 
all sorts of troubles." 

"And what do you think is the reason that I sit up late? 
Because my mind is ill at ease. Give me peace and I shall 
sleep peacefully!" 

lk You might have had peace. You had the opportunitv at 
Rome." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 161 

"Who could have given it to me?" 

" A — , if he had married you without change' of religion." 

"Oh,- my friend Walitzky, how dreadful! A man like A — ! 
Think of what you are saying! A man who has no opinions 
of his own, no will! What nonsense you are talking! Oh, 
really!" 

And I began to laugh softly. 

"He neither comes nor writes," I continued, "he is a poor 
child, whose importance we have overestimated. No, my dear 
Walitzky, he is not a man, and we were wrong to think other- 
wise." 

I said these last words with the same calmness that I had 
exhibited during the whole of the conversation — a calmness 
resulting from the conviction that I was saying what was just 
and true. 

/ went to my own room, and a great light, as it were, seemed 
to shine in on my mind. I understood at last that I had done 
wrong to allow a kiss (a single one, indeed, but all the same a 
kiss), and to grant an interview at the foot of the staircase; that 
if I had not gone out into the hall or anywhere else, if I had not 
sought the tete a tete, the man would have had more consideration 
for me, and there would be no reaso?t now for either anger or 
tears! {How I love myself for having written thus! What 
exquisite delicacy! — Paris, 1877.) 

I must always remember this; I have done wrong, I have 
committed a folly, led astray by the attraction of novelty, by 
the ease with which I yield to impulse, and by my lack of 
experience. 

Oh, how I see it all now! 

Ah, good friends, what could be expected? The young 
always make mistakes. A — has taught me the proper way to 
treat suitors for my hand. 

To live a hundred years, to learn a hundred years! 

Oh, how clear is my vision, how calm I am, and how devoid 
of any love! 
11 



162 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I shall go oat every day, be gay, and hope. 

Ah, son felice! 
Ah, son rapita! 

I sing 'Mignon/ and my heart is so full. 

How beautiful is the moon and its reflection in the water! 
How adorable is Nice! 

I love everybody. All the faces that pass by me are ami- 
able and smiling. 

It is all over! I knew well that it could not last. I want to 
lead a peaceful life. I will go to Russia, that will improve the 
situation, and I will bring my father back with me to Rome. 

Monday, June 12th. — Tuesday, June 13th. — I longed to live 
seven lives at once, and I do not live a quarter of a life. I am 
chained down. 

God will have pity upon me; but I know, that I am weak, 
and it seems to me that I am going to die. 

This is the truth of the matter: Either I must have all 
that God has permitted me to discern and to comprehend, in 
which case I shall be worthy of having it, or I shall die! 

For God, if He can not justly grant me all, will not have the 
cruelty to impose life upon an unhappy creature to whom He 
has given comprehension and the ambition to acquire what she 
comprehends. 

God has not made me what I am, without design. He can 
not have endowed me with the faculty of seeing everything, only 
to torment me by giving me nothing. Such a supposition is 
not in accordance with the nature of God, Who is a Being of 
justice and mercy. 

I must have what I want, or I must die. There is no ques- 
tion of that. Let Him do as He thinks best! I love Him, I 
believe in Him, I bless Him, and I beg Him to forgive me for 
the wrong I do. 

He has given me my comprehension of things to satisfy my 
longings, if I am worthy. If I am not worthy, He will let me die! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. IG3 

Wednesday, June 14//1. — In addition to the triumph I have 
given this little Italian boy, which greatly vexes me, I see also 
the scandal which will result from this affair. 

I did not expect an adventure of this kind; I foresaw noth- 
ing of the sort. I never imagined that such a thing could 
happen to me. I knew that such things did occur, but I did 
not really believe in them, and I knew nothing of them, as one 
who has never seen a corpse knows nothing of death. Oh, my 
life! my poor life! 

If I am as pretty as I say, why am I not loved? People look 
at me and are attracted by me, but they do not love me — and I 
have so much need of love. 

Is it the novels that I have read that have turned my head? 
No, but I read novels because my head is turned. I read over 
again old books. I seek with deplorable eagerness for scenes 
and words of love; I devour them because it seems to me that 
I love and that I am not loved. 

I love; yes, for I will not give any other name to what I feel. 

But, no, this is not what 1 desire. I long to go into the 
world. I long to shine there. I long for great rank. I long 
to be rich. I long for pictures, palaces, jewels. I long to be 
the center of a brilliant circle — political, literary, charitable, 
frivolous. I long for all this. May God give it to me! 

My God, do not punish me for these foolishly ambitious 
thoughts! 

Are there not people who are born in the midst of all this, 
who find it quite natural to possess it, and who do not thank 
God for it? 

Am I to blame for wishing to be great? 

No, for I would employ my greatness in thanking God and 
in desiring to be happy. Is it forbidden to desire to be 
happy? 

Are those who find their happiness in a modest, comfortable 
house, less ambitious then? No, for they have no comprehen- 
sion of anything beyond. 



164. JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Is he, who is contented to pass his life humbly in the midst 
of his family, modest and moderate in his wishes, through 
virtue, resignation, or wisdom? No, no, no! He is so because 
he is happy -thus; because to live obscurely is for him the 
height of happiness. And if he does not desire excitement, 
it is because he would find only unhappiness in excitement. 
There are also those who are afraid, and such people are not 
sages, but cowards, for they have secret longings and make no 
effort to obtain their desires, not through Christian virtue, but 
because of their timid and incapable nature. My God, if I 
reason badly, enlighten me, pardon me, have pity upon me! 

Thursday y June 22d. — I used to curl my lip when Italy was 
praised, and I would ask why so much fuss was made about 
the country, and why it was spoken of as a land quite superior 
to others. It is superior to other lands; the atmosphere one 
breathes here is different. Life is not the same as it is in 
other places; it is free, fantastic, broad, thoughtless and 
languishing, fiery and gentle, like its sun, its sky, its soil. So 
I soar aloft on my poet's wings (I am sometimes entirely a poet, 
and almost always one on some side of my nature) and I am 
ready to exclaim with " Mignon": 

Italia, reggio di ciel, 
Sol beato! 

Saturday^ June 24//Z. — I was waiting to be called to break- 
fast, when the doctor arrived all out of breath to tell me that 
he had received a letter from Pietro. I blushed scarlet, and 
without raising my eyes from the book I was reading, I asked: 
" Well, and what does he say?" 

" They will not give him any money, and — well, you will be 
able to judge from the letter better than I can." 

I took care not to evince any eagerness to see it, for I was 
ashamed of showing so much interest. 

Contrary to my usual habits, I was the first at the table, eat- 
ing with impatience, but saying nothing. 

" Is what the doctor has told me true?" I asked, at last. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 1G5 

" Yes," replied my aunt, " A — has written him." 

" Doctor, where is the letter?" 

" In my room." 

"Get it for me." 

The letter is dated the tenth of June, but as A— directed 
it simply to Nizza, it went to Nizza in Italy before being sent 
here. 

"I have employed all my time," he writes, "in begging my 
parents to allow me to go to Nice, but they absolutely refuse to 
listen to it," so it is impossible for him to come, and there is 
nothing left for him but to hope in the future, which is always 
uncertain. 

The letter is in Italian and they expected me to translate it. 
I did not say a word, however; but, gathering up my train with 
affected deliberation, so that they might not think that I was 
going away in agitation, I left the room and crossed the garden, 
tranquillity upon my face and hell in my heart. 

This is no answer to a telegram from a friend in Monaco, np 
trifle. It is an answer to me, a warning. And it is to me, who 
have soared so high in my imagination, to me that he says this! 
Shall I die? God does not wish it. Shall I become an opera 
singer? I have neither the health nor the patience. 

Then what, what? 

I threw myself down in an arm-chair, and with my eyes fixed 
blindly upon nothing, tried to understand the letter, to think of 
something. 

" Do you want to go to the clairvoyant's?" called mamma to 
me from the garden. 

"Yes," I answered, rising stiffly; " when?" 

" Now, at once." 

Anything, anything in order not to remain alone and drive 
myself crazy; anything to escape from myself. 

The clairvoyant was out. The walk in the heat did me 
neither harm nor good. I took a handful of cigarettes and 
my journal, with the intention of poisoning my lungs while 



166 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

writing blazing pages. But all will power seemed to have left 
me. I walked, straight and slow, as in a dream, to my bed, 
laid down, and drew the lace curtains. 

It is impossible to describe my suffering; besides, there 
comes a moment when one no longer knows how to complain. 
Crushed as I am, of what do you want me to complain? 



I can not give any idea of the profound disgust and dis- 
couragement that I feel. Love! Oh, word unknown to me! 
This is the truth, then? This man never loved me, and he 
regarded marriage as a means of obtaining his freedom: As 
for his protestations, I throw them on one side. I have never 
spoken of them to anyone, in fact, I never believed in them 
sufficiently to speak seriously of them. 

I do not say that he has always lied. A man almost always 
believes what he is saying at the moment that he speaks, but 
— afterward? 

* And, in spite of all my reasoning power, in spite of the 
Bible, I am burning to be revenged. I will take my time, be 
sure of that, and I will be revenged. 

Chi lungo a tempo aspetta, 
Vede al fin la sua vendetta. 

I entered my room, wrote a few lines, and, then, suddenly 
losing courage, burst into tears. Oh, after all, I am only a 
child! All these troubles are too heavy for me to bear all alone! 
I thought of going to waken my aunt. But she would think 
that I was crying from disappointed love, and I could not bear 
that. 

To say that love has no place in my sorrow, would be only 
justice. I am ashamed of it now. 

A little boy, the butt of everybody, a compound of a scoun- 
drel and a Jesuit, a child, a Paul! And I loved that! Bah! 
And yet, why not? A man loves a cocotte, a grisette, any- 
thing low, a peasant. Great men and great kings have loved 






JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 167 

women who amounted to nothing, and they have not been 
dethroned for that. 

I was becoming mad with rage and the sense of how power- 
less I was. All my nerves were unstrung, and I began to sing; 
this calmed me: 

Quanti ce n*e che s eniendomi canlare, 

Diran: Viva colei che a il cor contento. 

S'io canto, canto per non dir del male! 

Faccio per revelar quel c ho qui dentro, 

Faccio per revelar un 'afflitta doglia, 

Sebbene io canto, di piangere ho voglia y 

Faccio per revelar Vafflitta pena, 

Sebbene io canto, di dolor son piena. 

I might remain here all night and not be able to say all that 
I want to say, and if I could succeed in doing so, I should say 
nothing new, nothing that I have not said already. 



Really, really, all the things that I saw and heard in Rome 
come into my mind, and as I reflect upon that strange mixture 
of devotion, libertinage, religion, vulgarity, submission, 
depravity, prudery, haughty pride, and low cowardice, I say 
to myself: In truth, Rome is a unique city — strange, savage, 
and refined. 

Everything is different there from what it is in other cities. 
You seem to be upon another planet than the earth. 

And, really, Rome, which had a fabulous beginning, a fabu- 
lous prosperity, and a fabulous downfall, must be something 
impressive and original, both morally and physically. 

The city of God, the city of priests, I am speaking of. 
Since the king has been there, all is changed, and yet, that 
change is only among the liberals. 

The blacks are always the same. For this reason, I under- 
stood nothing of what A — said to me, and I always regarded 
his affairs as fables, or as things entirely outside of ordi- 
nary experience, while I see now that it is the same every- 
where in Rome. 



168 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Why did I encounter that inhabitant of the moon, of the old 
moon, of old Rome, I mean, a Cardinal's nephew! 

Bah! it is curious for me who love the extraordinary. It is 
original. No, they are all alike— Rome and the Romans — 
strange. 

Instead of being astonished, I would do better to tell what 
I know of Rome and the Romans; this would astonish much 
more than my astonishments and my exclamations. 

Do you know that when Pietro, six years ago, was very ill, 
his mother made him eat strips of paper, on which was written 
over and over again, this word: Maria, Maria, Maria! This 
was done so that the Virgin would cure him. It was, perhaps, 
for this reason that he fell in love with a Marie, and a very 
terrestrial one, too. They also made him drink holy water 
instead of taking medicine. 

But, after all, that doesn't amount to anything. I shall 
gradually remember everything and tell very curious things. 

The Cardinal, for example, is not a good man, and when 
they told him that his nephew was improving himself in a 
monastery, he laughed, and said that it was all nonsense, that 
a man of twenty-three would not become wise at the end of 
eight days' seclusion, and that, if he seemed converted, it was 
because he needed money. 

Friday, June 30///. — I pity old people, especially since 
grandpapa became entirely blind; I am so sorry for him. 
To-day, I led him down-stairs, and helped him at the table 
myself. He was ashamed of it, because he has a desire to 
appear still young, and I was obliged to use considerable tact. 
However, he accepted my services gratefully, for I proffered 
them in an off-hand sort of way, with a mingling of determi- 
nation and tenderness, which he could not resist. 

Sunday, July 2d. — Oh, what heat! what ennui! I am wrong 
to say ennui, however, (that one can never feel who has so 
many resources in one's self as I have). I do not feel ennui, 
for I read, sing, paint, and dream; but I am sad and uneasy. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 169 

Must my poor young life be passed in eating and drinking 
and domestic trivialities? A woman lives from sixteen to 
forty. I tremble at the thought of losing a month of my 
life. 

Why have I studied and tried to know more than other 
women — priding myself on knowing all the sciences which 
famous men are said, in their biographies, to have known? 

I have a smattering of everything, but I know thoroughly 
only history, literature, and physics. When I say that I have 
a smattering of everything, I mean everything that is interest- 
ing; but it is true, that, if I put my mind to it, I find every- 
thing interesting, and this puts me in a fever. 

What is the use of reading and reflecting? What is the 
use of the gift of song, of mind, of beauty? To rust, to die 
of sadness? If I were an ignorant brute, I might, perhaps, 
be happy. 

Not a living soul with whom to exchange a word! One's 
family does not suffice for a being of sixteen, especially such a 
being as I am! 

Grandpapa is certainly an intelligent man; but he is old, and 
blind, and irritating, with his servant Triphon, and his eternal 
complaints about the dinner. 

Mamma has much intelligence, very little learning, no 
knowledge of the world, not an atom of tact, and her mind 
has deteriorated through dwelling on nothing but the servants, 
my health, and the dogs. 

My aunt is a little more polished, and even impresses people 
who do not know her very well. 

Have I ever mentioned their ages? If she were in good 
health, mamma would still be a very handsome woman. My 
aunt is some years younger, but she appears the elder; she is 
not handsome, but tall, and with a good figure. 

Monday, July 3d. — Anior* decrescit ubique crescere non possit, 

* In Syrus, it is dolor, I have said amor^ for the maxini is as applicable t9 
pne as to the other, 



170 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Therefore, when two people are perfectly happy, they begin 
imperceptibly to love each other less, and end by drifting 
entirely apart. 

I am going away to-morrow, and I feel a certain regret at 
leaving Nice. 

All the preparations for the journey have cast a certain chill 
over my determination to go. 

I have chosen the music that I am going to take away and 
some books — the encyclopedia, a volume of Plato, Dante, 
Ariosto, Shakespeare, and a quantity of English novels by 
Bulwer, Collins, and Dickens. I talked a little nonsense with 
my aunt, and then I went out on the terrace. I remained in 
the garden until the twilight, which is so beautiful with the sea 
and the sky for a background; and the rich plants, the large- 
leaved trees, the bamboos and the palms; the fountain; the 
grotto, with its drops of water falling ceaselessly from rock to 
rock until they reach the basin — the whole surroundings give 
the spot an air of mysterious peace, which makes one idle and 
dreamy. Why does water always make one dreamy? 

I remained in the garden, looking at a vase in which grew a 
beautiful canna rose, and thinking how becoming my white 
dress and green wreath were in this delicious garden. 

Have I then no other object in life than to dress with so 
much art, and ornament myself with leaves and think of the 
e^ect? 

Frankly, I believe if I am read, I shall be adjudged tire- 
some. I am still so young, I know so little of life. 

I can not speak with that authority or that impudence 
belonging to writers who have the exorbitant pretension of 
knowing men, of dictating laws, and of imposing maxims. 

My maid has brought me a bodice for to-morrow, that I 
might look at it. That reminds me that to-morrow I leave. 



I came home followed by all the dogs. I drew the white 
box close to the table. Ah, there is my principal regret! My 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 171 

journal is the half of myself. Each day I had the habit of 
looking through the leaves of my journal, whether I wished 
to recall Rome or Nice, or things still prior! 
. The weather was too beautiful! 

And, as if on purpose, the eve of my departure, the moon 
shone brilliant and pale, lighting up all the beauties of my city. 
My? — without doubt — my city! I am of too little consequence 
for anyone to contest my claim to this property. 

Besides, does not the sun belong equally to all? I entered 
the salon. The rays of the moon penetrated freely through 
the large open windows, lighting the walls of white stucco 
and the white coverings. 

In spite of ourselves, we feel melancholy on a summer night 
like this. I walked around the room twice, something was 
wanting; nevertheless, I was not unhappy, on the contrary, I 
desired nothing. I should wish to always feel as quiet, as well. 
My soul, dilated by this sentiment of happy calm, seemed to 
want to pour itself forth all around me. I sat at the piano 
and allowed my long, white fingers to wander over the keys; 
but I missed something — perhaps someone. 

I am going to Russia. How willingly I would go to bed 
early on the eve of a day so impatiently awaited, in order to 
shorten the time! 

I am drawn toward Rome. Rome is a city we do not under- 
stand at first. In the first days, I saw in Rome only the Pincio 
and the Corso. I could not understand the simple beauty and 
all the memories clustering around this country, without trees, 
and without houses. Nothing but an undulating plain, like 
the ocean in a storm, dotted here and there by flocks of sheep, 
guarded by shepherds, like those spoken of by Virgil 

It is only our own degenerated class which undergoes a 
thousand transformations; and simple men, men of nature, 
change not, and resemble each other in all countries. 

Side by side, with this vast solitude interspersed with aque- 
ducts, the straight lines of which, cutting the horizon, 



172 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

produce the most striking effect, we see the most beautiful 
monuments of barbarism, and of universal civilization. Why 
say barbarism? It is because we, modern pigmies, in our 
petty pride, believe ourselves more civilized, because we were 
born last. 

No description can give an exact idea of this superb and 
graceful country, of this land of the sun, of beauty, of intel- 
lect, of genius, of the arts; of this country, fallen so low and 
remaining prostrate so long that it is impossible for it to 
be yet in a condition to rise again. 



Talk as we may of glory, of intellect, of beauty, we speak 
of them only to speak of love; to make a magnificent frame 
for this picture, always the same and always new. 

To leave my journal here, is a real sorrow. 

This poor journal, which contains all those aspirations 
toward light, all those flights which would be estimated as the 
flights of an imprisoned genius, if the end were crowned with 
success, and would be regarded as the delirious vanity of a com- 
monplace creature, if I were doomed to rust forever. 

For me to marry and have children! Why, any washer- 
woman can do so much. 

At least, let me find a man civilized and enlightened, or 
weak and very loving! 

But what do I want? Oh, you know it well; I want fame! 

It is not this journal which will give if me. This journal 
will be published only after my death, for in it I am too naked 
to show myself during life. Besides, it can be only the com- 
plement of an illustrious life. 

An illustrious life! Folly, produced by isolation, historical 
readings, and a too vivid imagination! 

I do not know any language perfectly. My own is familiar 
to me, only as far as- everyday phrases go. I left Russia at 
the age of ten. I speak Italian and English well. I think and 
write in French, and yet I believe I commit faults of orthog- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 173 

raphy; and frequently, I am at a loss for words, and I find, with 
a fury without parallel, my thought expressed by a celebrated 
writer, with facility and grace! 

Listen, rather: " Traveling is, whatever we may say, one 
of the saddest pleasures of life. If you find yourself com- 
fortable in a strange city, it is because you are beginning to 
feel at home.' , 

This was said by the author of " Corinne." And how many 
times I have become impatient, my pen in hand, because I 
was not able to make myself understood, and have ended by 
bursting out into expressions like this — I detest new cities; 
new faces are a martyrdom for me! 

All persons, therefore, feel in the same manner; the differ- 
ence exists only in the expression, as all men are made of the 
same materials; but how much they differ in features, form, 
complexion, character! 

You shall see that one of these days I shall read something 
of this kind, but expressed with intelligence, with eloquence, 
with charm. 

What am I? Nothing. What do I wish to be? Every- 
thing. 

Rest awhile, my intellect, fatigued by these thirstings, these 
bounds, after the infinite. Let us return to A — . Still A — . 
A child! a wretch! 

No! Is it not rather that he does not quite love me? 

He loves me as I love him. Oh, then it is not worth speak- 
ing of! No! The principal thing is that I leave my journal 
here. 

There, that block of paper is finished! When I reach Paris, 
I will commence another, which will doubtless suffice me for 
Russia. 

No one will notice a block of paper at the Custom House. 

I will take with me Pietro's last letter. 

I have just reread it. He is unhappy! Then why has he 
not more energy? 



174 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

In my exceptionally despotic position, I can speak of the 
matter without embarrassment — but he! And those Romans! 
It is something unheard of. 

Poor Pietro! My future fame prevents my thinking seri- 
ously of him. It seems to reproach me, the thoughts that I 
consecrate to him. 

Dear divinity, be reassured. Pietro is but an amusement — 
a melody to cover the lamentations of my soul. And, nevertheless, 
I reproach myself for thinking of him, since it is of absolutely 
no use! He can not even be the first step of that divine 
ladder, at the top of which is found satisfied ambition. 

Grand Hotel, Paris, July 4th. 
Amor, ut lacryma, oculo oritur in pectus cadit. 

Publius Syrus. 

Wednesday, July $th. — Yesterday, at 2 o'clock, I left Nice 
with my aunt, and Amalia (my maid). Chocolate, having hurt 
his foot, will be sent after us in two days. 

Mamma has been weeping for three days over my impend- 
ing absence, and so I am sweet and tender to her. 

Affections of husbands, of lovers, of friends, of children, 
come and go, for there can always be two of these beings. 

But there is only one mother, and a mother is the only 
creature in which we can confide entirely, whose love is disin- 
terested, devoted, and eternal. I felt all thjs for the first time, 
perhaps, when bidding her good-bye. And how I laughed over 
my love for H — , L — , and A — ! And of what small conse- 
quence it all seemed to me! Nothing! 

Grandpapa was moved to tears. Besides, there is always 
something solemn in the farewells of an old person. He 
blessed me and gave me an image of the Holy Virgin. 

Mamma and Dina accompanied us to the station. 

As usual, on leaving, I put on my gayest air. I was, never- 
theless, much grieved. 

Mamma did not weep, but I knew she was so unhappy that 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 175 

I felt something like a flood of regrets at leaving her, and 
because I had often been cross to her. But, thought I, look- 
ing at her through the window of our carriage, I was not cross 
through wickedness, I was so through pain, through despair, 
and now I go to change our lives. 

When the train was in motion, I felt that my eyes were filled 
with tears. And I involuntarily compared this departure with 
my last departure from Rome. 

Was it that my sentiment was weaker, or that I did not feel 
that I was leaving behind me an immense grief like that of a 
mother's? 

I began immediately to read " Corinne." That descrip- 
tion of Italy has a peculiar charm for me. And with what 
happiness I again saw Rome in this reading! My beautiful 
Rome with all its treasures! 

I admit frankly that at first I did not understand Rome. My 
strongest impression was the Coliseum, and, if I could write 
as I think, I would have expressed a multitude of very beauti- 
ful thoughts that came to me, when standing mute in the lodge 
of the Vestals, opposite that of Caesar. 

At half-past i we entered Paris, and, we must admit, Paris 
is, if not the most beautiful, at least the most graceful, the 
most witty of cities. 

Has not Paris also its history of grandeur, of decadence, of 
revolution, of glory, and of terror? Oh, yes! But all pales 
before Rome, for it is of Rome that all other powers are born. 

Rome has swallowed Greece, the home of civilization, of 
arts, of heroes, of poets. All that has been built, sculptured, 
thought, or done since, is it anything but imitation of the 
ancients? 

With us there is nothing original but the Middle Ages. Oh, 
why? Why is the world worn out? Is it -that the intellect of 
man has already given all that it could give? 

Monday, July ioth.— Say what we will, weave what romances 
we may, power and splendor (vile goods of this world), form 



176 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

an aureole about the head of those we love, and make us almost 
love those we do not love. 

Notwithstanding the cries of all the sentimentalists , it is 
clearly demonstrated that the strongest intellects allow them- 
selves to be influenced by external show, by the frame. 

But let us leave that aside, and let us take the thing from the 
heart's point of view. 

Is it not frightful to be separated by an absurd cause, to suffer 
doubt, absence, sadness, and all because of money! I scorn 
money, but I admit it is necessary. 

When we are happy, physically, the mind and heart are free, 
we can then love without calculation, without after-thought, 
without niggardliness. 

Why have so many women loved kings? 

Because a king is the expression of power, and woman loves 
to rule; but she needs the support of something strong, as the 
frail and delicate plant leans against a tree. 

See, I love A — , and this love is shaken at every instant, 
sometimes by doubt, sometimes by fear. 

At each instant, crushed by wounded self-love, humiliated 
by that ignoble dependence, I might have loved much, I might 
have loved with a sentiment even, strong, durable, and, instead 
of that, I feel but a sort of torment, which makes me say 
sometimes yes, sometimes no; which renders me uncertain, 
undecided, mercenary, miserable. 

No, do not attribute my conduct to frightful calculations. I 
do not love a man because he is rich, but because he is free, 
frank in all his movements. I want wealth that I may think 
no more of it, that I may be no more subjected to that force 
which is brutal, but incontestable, inevitable. 

I open my mouth to speak again, but all I could say would 
always be reduced to this: Perfect moral happiness can exist 
only when the material side is satisfied, and does not oblige us 
to think of ourselves as an empty stomach. 

The* highest degree of love, passion, carries everything 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 177 

before it, but for an instant only; and how we feel afterward 
the truth of all that I have just said. What I say, I have not 
read in books, I have not experienced; but let all those 
who have lived, who are no older than sixteen, like me, put 
aside that false shame we have in admitting such things, and 
let them admit it, let them say if what I am trying to prove is 
not just. If anyone is contented with little, it is because he has no 
ambition to have more. 

Thursday, fuly 13th. — In the evening, we went to the house 
of Countess de M — . She spoke of marriage to me. 

"Oh, no," said I, "I do not want that; I want to become 
a singer! See, dear countess, we must do this: I will disguise 
myself like a poor girl, and you, with my aunt, will conduct 
me to the first professor of singing in Paris, as a little Italian 
under your protection, and who has the promise of a fine 
voice." 

"Oh! Oh!" 

" Now, then," continued I, quietly, "that is the only way of 
knowing the truth about my voice. I have a little dress of 
last year which will produce an effect." I added, pursing up 
my lips, 

"Why, yes, it is an excellent idea!" 



My father telegraphs that he awaits me with impatience. 
Uncle Etienne telegraphs that he will meet me at the frontier. 
Uncle Alexander telegraphs that there is cholera in Russia. 
But I fear nothing, I am not a fatalist, and I do not believe 
that all things are written beforehand. I believe firmly that 
nothing happens without the will of God, and if God wishes 
me to die now, nothing can prevent it; while, if He has a long 
life in reserve for me, no epidemic in the world can harm 
me. 

My aunt requests me to go to bed, for it is 1 o'clock. 
"Leave me alone!" said I to her, "if you annoy me I shall 
become crazy!" 



178 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

My God! what idea troubles me again? Paris! Yes, Paris! 
the center of intelligence! of fame! of everything! Paris 
light and vanity — vertigo! 

Oh, God! give me the life that I want, or make me die! 

Friday, July i^th. — Since morning, I have been taking the 
greatest care of myself, I have not coughed once too much, I 
have not moved. I am dying of heat and of thirst, but I do 
not drink. 

At i o'clock, I took a cup of coffee, and ate one egg, so 
salty that it was rather salt with an egg, than an egg with 
salt. 

I have an idea that salt is good for the throat. 

I put on a plain dress of gray cambric, a black lace scarf, 
and a brown hat. But, once dressed, I looked so well, that I 
wished I could always look the same. 

At last, we started, stopped for Madame de M — , and arrived 
at the door of No. 37 Chaussee-d* Antin, at the home of Mon- 
sieur Wartel, the first professor of Paris. 

Madame de M — went in and spoke to him of a young 
girl from Italy who had been particularly recommended to her. 
Her parents wished to know if there were any hopes of a 
musical future for her. 

Monsieur Wartel said he would expect her to-morrow, and 
it was with great urging we succeeded in being allowed a hear- 
ing at 4 o'clock. 

We arrived at 3 o'clock. We were allowed to enter into an 
antechamber; we wished to go farther but a servant barred 
the way, and it was only when told that we were the ladies 
expected by Monsieur Wartel, that he allowed us to pass. 

We were led into a small parlor next to that in which the 
master was giving a lesson. 

" It is for 4 o'clock, Madame," said a young man, entering. 

" Yes, Monsieur, but you will permit this young girl to 
listen." 

" Undoubtedly, Madame." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 179 

During one hour, we listened to the singing of an English 
woman; a bad voice, and what a method! I had never 
heard such singing. 

And I remembered with indignation Faccioti, Tosti, and 
Creschi. 

The walls of the parlor in which we found ourselves were 
all covered with portraits of the greatest artists known, and 
with the most affectionate dedications beneath them. 

At last it struck 4, and the Englishwoman went. I felt 
myself trembling and my strength going. 

Wartel made me a sign which meant: Come in! 

I did not understand. 

" Come in, Mademoiselle, come in!" 

I entered, followed by my two companions, whom I requested 
to return to the small parlor, for they would intimidate me, 
and, in reality, I was very much afraid. 

Wartel is very old, but the accompanist is quite young. 

" You read music?" 

" Yes, Mdnsieur." 

"What do you sing?" 

" Nothing, but I will sing a scale or a vocal exercise." 

" Take, then, a vocal exercise, Monsieur Chose. What is 
your voice? Soprano?" 

" No, Monsieur; contralto." 

"We shall see." 

Wartel did not arise from his arm-chair, but made a sign 
to commence. And I attacked the exercise, trembling at first, 
then enraged, and at last contented. For I did not take my eyes 
off the long, long, long face of the master. It was surprising. 

"Ah, well," said he, "it is rather a mezzo-soprano that 
you have. It is a voice that can be raised." 

" And what can you say of it, Monsieur?" inquired the 
ladies, entering. 

" I say that there is a voice; but, you know, we must work 
hard. That voice is still young, and it will increase; in short, 



180 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

it will follow the development of Mademoiselle. There is 
material, the organs are there, we must work." 

" Then you believe it is worth while?" 

" Yes, yes, we must work." 

" But the voice is good?" asked Madame de M — . 

" It will be a good voice," answered the man, in his tranquil 
tones, and with his indolent and reserved air; "but we must 
develop it, place it, work it, and it is a long business. Oh, 
yes, we must work!" 

" I sang badly?" I asked, at last, " I was so frightened." 

"Ah, Mademoiselle, you must grow accustomed to that! 
This fear must be overcome, it would be unwelcome on the 
stage." 

But I was charmed with what the man had said; for what 
he said is a great deal for a poor girl who will bring him no 
profits. 

Accustomed as I am to flattery, his grave and judicial tone 
seemed cold; but I understood at once that he was pleased. 

He caid: "We must work, there is some good," that is 
already enormous. 

During this time the accompanist was measuring me — 
minutely examining my figure, arms, hands, and face. 

I lowered my eyes and blushed, requesting the ladies to go. 

Wartel was seated, I stood in front of his chair. 

" You have taken lessons?" 

" Never, Monsieur; that is, ten lessons only." 

" Yes; in short, we must work. You may sing a romance." 

" I know a Neapolitan song, but I have not the music." 

"The * Mignon ' air," exclaimed my aunt, from the other 
room. 

" Very well, sing the ' Mignon ' air." 

While I sang, the face of Wartel, which at first only 
expressed attention, showed a slight surprise, then astonish- 
ment, and, finally, he went so far as to move his head to the 
measure, smiling agreeably, and humming himself. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 181 

" Hem!" ejaculated the accompanist. 

"Yes, yes," motioned the master, with his head. 

I sang, much agitated. 

" Remain in place, do not move, breathe!" 

" Ah well, Monsieur," we said, all three together. 

" Ah well, tis well. Make her do the — "(ah ! I forget the word 
he said). 

The accompanist made me do the — , never mind the name; 
he made me run over all my notes. 

" As high as 57 natural," said he to the old man. 

"Yes, it is a mezzo-soprano; besides, it is much more 
advantageous, much more advantageous for the stage." 

I was still standing. 

" Sit down, Mademoiselle," said the accompanist, examining 
me from head to foot. 

I sat down on the edge of the sofa. 

" In short, Mademoiselle," said the severe Wartel, " we must 
work; you will succeed." 

He told me many other things concerning the theatre, sing- 
ing, study, and all with his impassible air. 

" How long would it require to form this voice?" asked 
Madame de M — . 

"You understand, Madame, that it depends on the pupil; 
there are some who advance more quickly than others — those 
who have intelligence." 

" This one has more than necessary." 

" Ah, so much the better! In that case it is easier." 

" But, in short, how much time?" 

" To form her well, to finish her, three long years; yes, 
three long years of work, three long years!" 

I was silent and meditated vengeance against the perfidious 
accompanist, with his air of saying: " She has a good figure 
and is pretty; I shall enjoy her lessons." 

After a few more commonplaces, we arose. Wartel remained 
seated, extending his hand to me with kindness. 



182 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I was biting my lips. 

" Listen," said I, at the door, " let us return and tell him the 
truth." 

My aunt presented her card. We went in laughing heartily. 
I related my plot to the severe maestro. How astounded the 
accompanist looked! I shall never forget it. I was avenged. 

" Had you spoken a little more," said Wartel, " I would have 
known you for a Russian." 

"I knew that well, Monsieur; therefore, I did not speak." 

The ladies explained to him my desire of knowing the 
truth from his illustrious lips. 

"It is as I told you, ladies; there is voice, there must be 
talent." 

"I will have it, Monsieur; I have; besides, you will see." 

I was so glad that I consented to go on foot as far as the 
Grand Hotel. 

" Never mind, my dear," said the countess, " I observed the 
face of the master from the next room, and when you sang 
* Mignon,' he was very much astonished; is it not so, Madame? 
He hummed, and from a man like him! And for a little Ital- 
ian whom he was there to judge with all possible severity!" 

We dined together; I was pleased and I showed myself as 
I am, with all my originalities, and fancies; all my ambitions; ail 
my hopes. 

After dinner we remained a long time on the porch, enjoy- 
ing the fresh air and the sight of the innumerable travelers who 
passed and repassed in the court-yard. 

I must study with Wartel. And Rome?' 

We will consider it. 

It is late, I will speak of that to-morrow. 

Sunday, July \6th. — When I think of the happiness of 
Mademoiselle K — , to have become Princess of S — , all the bad 
instincts awaken in me — that is to say, envy! 

That girl, so miserable at Nice, so common with her red 
cheeks and her large, shapeless nose! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 183 

She is beautiful, but it is a beauty that I would like in a 
waiting-maid, dressed in an odd costume — a woman to put on 
my shoes, to fan me. 

And there she is queen, and queen in a moment of trouble, 
in a moment beyond the reach of the ambitious. 

Truly, her place is marked in history. 

And I!!! 

Tuesday, July \Zth. — To-day, I have seen some very extra- 
ordinary things. We went to the celebrated clairvoyant, Alexis. 

He gives but few consultations other than consultations for 
the health. 

We entered a room in semi-darkness, and as Madame 
de M — had said, " We are not here for health," the doctor 
went out, leaving us alone with the sleeping man. 

A man that made me incredulous, and especially because of 
the absence of all exterior charlatanism. 

"It does not concern health," said Madame de M — , 
placing my hand in that of Alexis. 

"Ah!" said he, his eyes half closed and glassy like those of 
a corpse. " All the same, your little friend is very ill." 

" Oh!" exclaimed I, frightened, and I was about to tell him 
not to speak of my illness, fearing to hear something horrible; 
but before I had time, he was giving the details of my disease, 
which is laryngitis, something chronic. 

" Laryngitis, but I have very strong lungs, that is what 
saves me." 

"The organ was superb," said Alexis, compassionately, "at 
present, it is worn out; you must be treated." 

It had to be written, I do not remember all he said of bron- 
chiae of the larynx; for that reason I will return to the subject 
to-morrow. 

" I come, Monsieur," said I to him, u to consult you about 
this person." 

And I placed in his hand a sealed envelope containing a 
photograph of the Cardinal, 



184 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

But before I tell of all the extraordinary things that hap- 
pened here, let us agree together that there was nothing in my 
aspect to lead anyone to suppose that I thought of a Cardinal. 
I had not spoken a word about it to anyone. And, moreover, 
what probability was there that a young, elegant Russian should 
go to a clairvoyant to speak of the Pope, of the Cardinal, of 
the devil? 

Alexis kept his hand to his forehead and thought; I was 
becoming impatient. 

" I see him," said he, at last. 

" Where is he?" 

"In a large city in Italy; he is in a palace surrounded by 
many people; he is a young man — no, it is his expressive fea- 
tures that deceive me. He has gray hair; he is in uniform; he 
is past sixty years of age." 

I hung with increasing eagerness upon words which fell from 
his lips. I was astounded. 

"What uniform?" asked I. "It is singular. He is not a soldier." 

" No, assuredly!" 

" No, but then, what is that uniform?" 

"Strange; not of our country. It is — " 

"It is?" 

"It is an ecclesiastical habit. Wait! He occupies a very 
high station; he rules others; he is a Bishop — no! he is a 
Cardinal!" 

I gave a start, kicking my slippers to the other end of the 
room. Madame de M — was convulsed with laughter on seeing 
my excitement. 

" A Cardinal?" I repeated. 

"Yes." 

"What is he thinking of?" 

" He is thinking of a very grave matter; he is very much 
occupied." 

The slowness of Alexis, and the difficulty he seemed to have 
in pronouncing the words, made me nervous, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. ] 85 

" Go on, see whom he is with. What is he saying?" 

" He is with two young men — officers — two young men whom 
he often sees, who belong to the palace." 

I always saw at the Saturday receptions, two young officers 
in the suite of the Pope. 

" He is speaking to them," continued Alexis, " he speaks to 
them in a strange tongue— Italian!" 

" Italian!" 

" Ah, but he is highly educated, this Cardinal, he speaks 
nearly all the European languages." 

" Do you see him at this moment?" 

" Yes, yes. Those who surround him are also ecclesiastics. 
One of them, very tall, thin, with glasses, approaches him and 
speaks low; he is near-sighted — he is obliged to bring the 
object very near to his eyes that he may see." 

Ah, bother! it is the picture of the one whose name I always 
forget; but he is well known in Rome; he is the one who 
spoke of me at the dinner of the Villa Mattei. 

"What is the Cardinal doing?" I asked. " What has he just 
done? Whom has he seen lately?" 

" Yesterday — yesterday, he held a large reception at his 
home — people of the church — all! Yes, they discussed a grave 
subject, very grave, yesterday — Monday. He is much dis- 
turbed, for it is a question of — " 

"Of what?" 

" They talk, they work, they want — " 

"What? See!" 

" They want to make him — Pope!" 

"Oh! Oh!" 

The tone in which this was said, the astonishment of the 
clairvoyant, and the words of themselves gave me something 
like an electrical shock. I could scarcely stand. I removed 
my hat, deranging my curls, detaching the pins and throwing 
them in the middle of the room. 

" Pope!" I exclaimed. 



1SG JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" Yes, Pope," repeated Alexis, "but there are great diffi- 
culties. He is not the one who has the most chance." 

"But will he be Pope?" 

" I can not read the future." 

" But then, Monsieur, try, you can — go on!" 

" No, no! I do not see the future! I do not see it!" 

" But who is the Cardinal? What is his name? Can you 
not see by his surroundings — by what is said to him?" 

"A — wait! Ah!" said he, " it is because this picture that I 
hold here is so devoid of vitality, and you are so agitated that 
you tire me horribly. Your nerves give shocks to mine. Be 
more calm." 

" Yes, but you tell me things that make me jump. Let us 
see the name of this Cardinal?" 

He pressed his head between his hands, and smelling the 
envelope (which was gray and double, and very thick), sud- 
denly— "A—!" 

I had nothing more to takeoff; I .threw myself into an arm- 
chair. 

" Does he think of me?" 

" Little — and badly. He is against you. There is — I do not 
know what dissatisfaction — political motives." 

" Political motives?" 

"Yes." 

" But will he be Pope?" 

" I do not know. The French party will be destroyed, that 
is to say, the French papists have but little chance! Oh, but 
they have scarcely any — his party will unite with the party of 
Antonelli or the other Italian." 

" Whicl} of the two? Which will triumph?" 

" I can not say at present; but many people are against A — ; 
it is the other." 

" And it will soon be decided?" 

"We can not know. There is the Pope, they can not kill 
the Pope! The Pope must live!" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 187 

"And will Antonelli live long?" 

Alexis shook his head. 

" Is he, then, very ill?" 

"Oh, yes!" 

" What is the matter with him?" 

" He has pains in the legs; he has the gout; and yesterday — 
no, day before yesterday, he had a terrible attack. He has a 
disease of the blood. I can not explain that to a lady." 

" And it is useless." 

" Do not agitate yourself," said he, "you fatigue me. Think 
slowly, I can not follow you." 

His hand was trembling, and made everything within me 
tremble. I let go of it and became calm. 

" Take that," said I, handing him Pietro's letter sealed in an 
envelope exactly similar to the other. 

He took it, and, like the other, pressed it against his heart 
and brow. 

" Ah! this one is younger," said he; " he is very young. 
This letter was written some time ago. It was written in 
Rome, and since then this person has removed. He is still in 
Italy — but not Rome. There is the sea. That man is in the 
country, in the open country. Oh, certainly! he has removed 
since yesterday, only twenty-four hours ago — no more. But 
that man is something to the Pope. I see him behind the 
Pope; he is allied to A — , there is a link of near relationship 
between them." 

" But what is his character, what are his inclinations, his 
thoughts?" 

" He is a strange character — retiring, gloomy, ambitious — 
He thinks of you constantly — but he thinks, above all, of 
attaining his design. He is ambitious." 

" He loves me?" 

"Very much; but his is a strange, unhappy nature. He is 
ambitious." 

" Then he does not love me?" 



188 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"Yes, he loves you, but with him love and ambition go 
hand-in-hand. He has need of you." 

" Describe him to me more fully as to morals." 

" He is the contrary of you," said Alexis, smiling, " although 
fully as nervous." 

" Does he see the Cardinal?" 

" No, they do not agree; the Cardinal has long been against 
him from political motives." 

I remembered what Pietro said to me: "My uncle would 
not be angry with the Caccia Club, and the volontariat; what 
is it to him, if it were not for politics?" 

" But he is his near relative," continued Alexis. " The 
Cardinal is displeased with him." 

"Have they not met lately?" 

"Wait! You think of too many things, these are difficult 
questions, I confound this note with the other! They were 
in the same envelope!" 

That was true, yesterday they were in the same envelope. 

"See, Monsieur, try to see!" 

"I see! They met two days ago, but they were not alone. 
I see him with a lady." 

"Young?" 

"Middle-aged, his mother." 

" Of what did they speak?" 

" Of nothing, clearly; they were embarrassed. They said a 
few vague words, almost nothing, about this marriage." 

"What marriage?" 

"With you." 

"Who spoke of it?" 

" They. Antonelli does not speak, he lets them speak. He 
was against this marriage from the very beginning. At pres- 
ent, he looks on it more favorably, and bears the idea bet- 
ter." 

"But what are the young man's ideas?" 

" Fixed ideas; he wants to marry you — but An-tond-li does not 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 189 

wish it. Since a very short time, however, he has been less 
hostile." 

Madame de M — intimidated me greatly, but I continued 
bravely, although all my gay humor had fallen as low as 
possible. 

" If that man thinks only of his aim, he does not think of 
me then!" 

" Oh, as I have told you, with him you and his ambition 
are but one and the same thing." 

" Then he loves me?" 

"Oh, very much!" 

" Since when?" 

" You are too much agitated, you fatigue me, and you ask 
me questions too difficult. I do not see." 

"Oh, yes; try!" 

" I do not see — since a long time! no, I do not see that." 

"What is he to A—?" 

"A near relative." 

" And A — , has he any designs on this young man?" 

"Oh, yes! but they are divided through politics; neverthe- 
less, things are smoother at present." 

" You say that A — is against me?" 

" Very much. He does not wish this marriage on account 
of religion. But he begins to soften — oh, very little — all 
that depends on politics. I say to you that A — and this 
young man were entirely divided some time ago. A — was 
squarely against him." 



Well, what do you say to that, you who call all such things 
charlatanism? If it is charlatanism, it produces marvelous 
effects. I have transcribed it all minutely; I may have omitted 
something, but I have added nothing. Is it not most sur- 
prising? Is it not strange? My aunt pretended to be incred- 
ulous, for she was furious against the Cardinal; she began a 
tirade of abuse against Alexis without object or reason. 



190 JOURNAL OF MARIE RASHKIRTSEFF. 

which provoked me terribly, knowing that she did not mean a 
word of it. 

I was in high spirits yesterday, but to-day I am equally 
depressed. 

Saturday, July 2 2d. — J — seeing that I do not arrive 111 Rus- 
sia, has telegraphed to mamma, w T ho writes that he and L — are 
my truly faithful friends. Yes, it is true. I think no more 
of Pietro, he is unworthy, and thank God, I do not love him! 

Until the day before yesterday, I asked God every night to 
preserve him for me, and to make me triumph. I ask it no 
longer. 

But God knows I want to avenge myself, although I do not 
dare ask for it. Vengeance is not a Christian sentiment, 
although noble; leave to the despicable the forgetfulness of 
injuries; besides, we forget them only when w r e can not do 
otherwise. 

Sunday, July 2$d. — Rome! Paris! The stage! singing! 
painting! 

No, no! Russia before all! It is the foundation of all. 
Ha! since I pose as wise, let me act accordingly. Let not 
the Will-d -the-Wisp of imagination lead me astray. 

Russia before all! may God only help me! 

I have written to mamma. I am now out of love, and up 
to the ears in business. Oh, if God will only help me, all 
will be well. 

May the Virgin Mary pray for me! 

Thursday, July 27th. — At last; yesterday we left Pans at 7 
in the morning. 

During the journey, I amused myself by giving Chocolate 
a lesson in history, and thanks to me, that brigand has some 
idea of the ancient Greeks, of Rome governed by kings, then 
as a republic, and finally as an empire, like France; and of 
the history of France from the time of the king who was 
beheaded. I explained to him the different parties that exist 
at present, and Chocolate is now well informed on the topics 






JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIkTSKI I . 191 

of the present day; he even knows what a Deputy is. I 
related this to him, and afterward questioned him. 

When I had finished, I asked him to what party he belonged, 
and the brigand answered: 

" I am a Bonapartist!" 

This is the recapitulation of what he has learned. 

"The last king was Louis XVI., who was very good, but the 
Republicans, who are people who look for money and honors 
only, cut his head off, and that of his wife, Marie Antoinette 
also, and they then formed a republic. Afterward, France 
was very miserable, and there was born a man in Corsica who 
was Napoleon Bonaparte, and who had so much intelligence 
and courage that he was made Colonel, then General. Then, 
he conquered all the world, and the French loved him very 
much. But, having gone to Russia, he forgot to bring over- 
coats for his soldiers, and so they were very unhappy on 
account of the cold, and the Russians burned Moscow. Then, 
Napoleon, who was already Emperor, returned to France; 
but as he was unlucky, the French, who love Only those who 
are lucky, loved him no longer, and all the other kings, to 
revenge themselves, ordered him to abdicate. Then he went 
to the Isle of Elba, afterward returned to Paris for ioo days, 
finally they drove him away. Then he saw an English vessel; 
he prayed them to save him; and when he got on board, they 
made him a prisoner and conducted him to St. Helena, where 
he died." 

I assure you that Chocolate said it pretty nearly correctly. 



At last; this morning we arrived at Berlin, and the impres- 
sion made on me by this city, was singularly agreeable; the 
houses are very fine. I can not write a word to-day. It is 
enervating. 

" Two sentiments are common to lofty or affectionate 
natures: First, extreme susceptibility to the opinion of others; 
and secondly, extreme bitterness when that opinion is unjust." 



192 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Friday, July 2%th. — Berlin reminds me of Florence. But 
wait! It reminds me of Florence, because I am with my aunt, 
as in Florence, and I am leading the same life. 

First of all, we visited the museum. Either through igno- 
rance, or through prejudice, I did not expect anything like it in 
Prussia. 

As usual, the statues attracted me most. It seems to me I 
possess one sense more than the rest of mankind — a faculty 
especially intended for the comprehension of statues. 

In the large hall is a statue which I took for an Atalanta, 
because of a pair of sandals, which seemed to indicate that it 
was she, but the inscription bore the name of Psyche. No 
matter, Psyche or Atalanta, it is a remarkable figure of beauty 
and naturalness. 

After seeing the Greek casts, we passed on. My eyes and 
intellect were already fatigued, and I recognized the Egyptian 
part only by its crowded and transitory lines, which recall the 
circles produced by the fall of an object into water. 

Nothing is so terrible as to be with someone who is wearied 
by the objects which amuse you. 

My aunt was hurried, tired, grumbling. It is true we had 
walked two hours. 

What is very interesting, is the historical museum of min- 
iatures, statues, and also of ancient engravings and miniature 
portraits. I adore these portraits; and, in looking at them, my 
fancy takes inconceivable flights, transports itself to all the 
epochs, invents characters, adventures, dramas. But enough! 

Then the paintings. 

To-day, painting has reached its highest point of develop- 
ment. 

They commenced with harsh lines, vivid colors, which did 
not blend together, and we have reached a degree of softness 
which is not, however, devoid of confusion. There has not 
yet been, whatever we may say and write, there has not yet 
been a faithful copy of nature. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 193 

We must close our eyes on all that has been accomplished 
between the primitive style and the modern* style, and 
consider but those two. 

Harshness, blinding colors, rudely traced lines — that is for the 
first. Softness, colors so blended with each other that they 
lose much of their identity, few lines — that is for the second. 

We should now, so to speak, take with the end of the brush 
the too vivid colorings of ancient paintings, and transfer them 
to modern insipidity. Then we would have perfection. 

There is again that style which is altogether new consisting 
of painting by splashes. It is a grave error, even if, with its 
aid, we obtain some effect. 

In new paintings, positive objects, such as furniture and 
houses, or churches, are not understood. We reject precision 
in decorations, and produce a sort of depravity of lines. We 
stump too much (we may stump without using the stump), 
which has the effect that the figures contrast but little, and 
seem as lifeless as the objects that surround them, for these 
objects have not enough precision, and do not seem completely 
fixed and immovable. 

Well, my child, since you understand so well, what is 
required to attain perfection? Be tranquil. I will work, and 
what is more, I will succeed. 

I came home extremely tired, after having purchased thirty-two 
English volumes partly translated from the first German writers. 

" Already a library here! " cried my aunt, with fright. The 
more I read, the more I want to read; and the more I learn, 
the more I have to learn. 

I do not say this to imitate a certain wise man of antiquity. 
I feel what I say. 

Here I am in "Faust." I am seated before an antique German 
bureau — books, manuscripts, rolls of paper. 

Where is the devil? Where is Marguerite? Alas! the 
devil is always with me — my foolish vanity, there is the evil 

* By modern, I mean Raphael, Titian, and the other great masters. 
13 



194 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

spirit. Oh, unjustii.ed ambition! Useless impulse toward 
an unknown aim! 

I detest the golden mean; I must have either a life full of 
excitement, or absolute calm. 

I do not know why, but I do not love A — at all. Not only 
do I not love him, I do not even think of him, and all that 
seems a dream. 

But Rome attracts me; I feel that there only can I study. 
Rome, the noise and the silence, the dissipation and the reveries, 
the light and the shadow! But wait! the light and the shadow? 
It is clear that where there is light there is a shadow, and vice 
versa. No! I ridicule myself, that is positive! I want to go 
to Rome, the only spot in the world that accords with my dis- 
position, the only one I love for itself. 

The museum at Berlin is beautiful and rich, but does 
Berlin owe it to Germany? No; to Greece, to Egypt, to 
Rome! 

After the contemplation of all this antiquity, I entered the 
carriage with the most profound disgust for our arts, our 
architectures, and our fashions. 

If you took the trouble to analyze your sentiments, when 
leaving such places, you would find that you think as I do. 
Why always insist upon thinking as others do? 

While not admiring the dryness and the materialism of 
Germans, we must acknowledge that they possess many good 
qualities; they are very polite, very obliging. 

And what pleases me above all, is the respect they have for 
princes and their history. That is because they are undefiled 
by the infection which we call the republic. 

Nothing is so fine as an ideal republic; but the republic is 
like the ermine — the least spot kills it. And find me a republic 
without stain! 



No, such a life is impossible, it is a frightful country! 
Beautiful houses, wide streets, but — nothing for the intellect 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 195 

or imagination! The smallest city in Italy is worth ten 
Berlins. 

My aunt asks me how many pages I have written. " One 
hundred pages, I believe," she says. 

In truth, I look as if I were writing; but no, I think, I dream, 
I read, then I write two words, and it is thus all day. 

It is singular how well I understand the benefits of the 
republic, since I am a Bonapartist. 

No, truly the republic is the only happy form of govern- 
ment; only, in France it is impossible. Besides, the French 
Republic is built on mire and blood. Well, let us not think of 
the republic. I have thought of it for nearly a week; for, in 
short, let us see, is France more unhappy since she has been 
a republic? No, on the contrary. Well, then? 

And the abuses? They are found everywhere. 

What is needed, is a good liberal constitution, and a man at 
the head who will govern but little and who will be like a 
beautiful sign, which does not increase the value of the store, 
but inspires confidence and is agreeable to the eye. Now, a 
President can not be that. 

But enough for to-night; another time, when I know more, 
I will say more about it. 

Sunday, July $oth. — Nothing is so sad as Berlin. The city 
bears the seal of simplicity; of homely, ungainly simplicity. 
All those innumerable monuments which encumber the bridges, 
the streets, and gardens are badly placed and look stupid. 
Berlin is like a mechanical clock, where, at certain moments, 
the soldiers come out of their barracks, the boatmen row, 
the ladies in hoods pass, holding by the hand wretched 
children. 

On the eve of my return to Russia, of being without my 
aunt, without mamma, I weaken and I am afraid. The grief 
I cause my aunt, pains me. 

The lawsuit, the uncertainty, all that . . . and then, and 
then, I do not know, but I fear that I can change nothing! 



196 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The idea of recommencing after my return the same life as 
formerly, this time without hope of change, without having 
that " Russia/* which consoled me for everything and gave me 
strength! My God, have pity on me, see the state of my soul 
and be kind! 

In two hours we leave Berlin; to-morrow, I shall be in Russia. 
Well, no, I do not weaken; I am strong. Only, if I go in 
vain? But that is wrong; we should not despair in advance. 

Ah, if some one could understand what I feel! 

Monday, July 31st. — Yesterday, my aunt, myself, Chocolate, 
and Amalia arrived at the station, at 10 o'clock. I was quite 
overcome, but the sight of a coupe, as large and comfortable 
as a small room, reanimated me a great deal, more so, as the 
car was lighted by gas, and we were sure of being alone. 
The compartment having but three places, the servants placed 
themselves beside me. On the eve of a separation, I should 
have wished to converse with my aunt; but I am not demon- 
strative, when I feel seriously tender, and my aunt was silent, 
fearing to displease me or to make me impatient by speaking. 
So that, willing or unwilling, I remained absorbed in " Un 
M ariage dans le Monde" by Octave Feuillet. 

A salutary work, by my faith! which gave me the most pro- 
found horror of adultery and all those obscenities. 

Over these wise reflections, I went to sleep to awaken only 
three hours from the frontier, at Eydtkuhnen, where we arrived 
about 4 o'clock. 



The country is flat, the trees bushy and green; but the 
leaves, although fresh and vigorous, gave me a certain 
feeling of sadness after the rich and abundant pastures of 
the South. 

We were conducted to a tavern called Hotel de Russie, and 
we installed ourselves in two small rooms with whitewashed 
ceilings, bare floors, and wooden furniture, equally plain and 
simple. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 197 

Thanks to necessity, I immediately improvised a bath and 
a toilet, and, after having partaken of eggs and milk, served 
by a fresh and fat German woman, here I am writing. 

I am not without charms, in this poor little room, in a white 
peignoir, with my beautiful arms bare, and my golden hair. 

I have just looked out of the window. The infinite is 
tiresome to the sight — the complete absence of hills, and this 
plain, so flat, remind me of the summit of a mountain 
which dominates the entire world. 

Chocolate is foolishly vain. 

"You are my courier," said I to him, " you should speak 
several languages." 

The little fellow answered me that he spoke French, Italian, 
Nicene, and a little Russian, and that he would speak German 
i if I would only teach him. 

He came to me in tears, followed by peals of laughter 
I from Amalia, complaining that the hotelkeeper had assigned 
\ him a bed in a room already occupied by a Jew. 

I put on a serious look, seeming to think it only natural 

| that he should sleep with a Jew; but poor Chocolate wept so, 

that I began to laugh, and, to console him, made him read a few 

pages of a History of the World, purchased especially for him. 

This negro boy amuses me; he is a living toy. I give 
him lessons, I drill him in his duties, I make him tell his 
whims; in a word, he is my dog and my doll. Decidedly, life 
at Eydtkuhnen charms me. I give myself up to instructing 
young Chocolate, who is making excellent progress, in morals 
and in philosophy. 

This evening, I made him recite his sacred history, and when 
he reached the place where Jesus is betrayed by Judas, he 
related to me in a very touching manner, how the said Judas 
sold our Lord for thirty pieces of silver, and pointed him out 
to the guards with a kiss. 

" Chocolate, my friend/' said I, " would you sell me to my 
enemies for 30 francs?" 



! 



198 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

" No," said Chocolate, shaking his head. 

" For 60?" 

-No." 

-For 120?" 

"No." 

" Then for 1,000 francs?" asked I, again. 

" No, no," replied Chocolate, scratching the edge of the 
table with his monkey fingers, his eyes lowered, and his feet 
agitated. 

" Look here, Chocolate, if you were offered 10,000?" per- 
sisted I, affectionately. 

"No." 

tc Good boy! but if you were offered 100,000 francs?" asked 
I, again, to relieve my conscience. 

" No," said Chocolate, and his voice changed to a murmur, 
" it would need to be more." 

-What did you say?" 

- That I should want more." 

- Then, excellent heart, say how much, say it then, faithful 
scoundrel! Let us see, 2,000,000, 3,000,000, 4,000,000?" 

- Five or six!" 

- But wretch!" cried I, - Is it not the same thing to sell for 
30 francs or for 6,000,000?" 

" Oh, no, for if I had as much money as that, no one could 
make me do anything." 

In contempt of all morality I fell on the sofa, convulsed 
with laughter, while Chocolate, satisfied with himself, retired 
to the next room. 

But do you know who prepared my dinner? Amalia. 

She roasted two small fowls; without that, I should have 
died of hunger, and as to thirst — we were served a Chateau- 
Larose which was not fit to drink. 

•No, truly, Eydtkiihnen is funny! We shall see what Russia 
will be. 

Tuesday, August 1st. — I feel like writing a romance of chiv- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 199 

airy, for that one which I have commenced is thrown at the 
bottom of the white box. 

I am with my aunt in this happy tavern of Eydtkuhnen, 
awaiting my much-honored uncle. 

About half-past 8, tired of being shut up, I went to see the 
arrival of the train myself, and being told that I was a few 
minutes ahead, I went for a walk, accompanied by Amalia. 

Eydtkuhnen possesses a charming walk, well paved and 
shaded, lined on the right by pretty, neat, little houses; there 
are also two species of cafes and a sort of restaurant. The 
whistle of the locomotive surprised me in the middle of this 
walk, and, notwithstanding my small feet and high heels, I 
began running through kitchen gardens, piles of stones, rails, 
to arrive in time — and in vain! What thinks my good uncle? 

Wednesday, August 2d. — While awaiting other sorrows, 
behold my hair is falling out. Those who have never experi- 
enced it can never understand what grief it is to see your hair 
fall out. 

Uncle Etienne telegraphs from Konotop that he will not 
start till to-day. Twenty-four hours more of Eydtkuhnen, if 
you please! A gray sky, a cold wind, a few Jews in the street; 
from time to time, the noise of a cart; worries of all sorts in 
plenty. 

This evening my aunt tried to make me speak of Rome. 
For a long time, I had not wept — not from love — no, but it is 
the humiliation at the recollection of our life at Nice that 
made me weep to-night. 

Thursday, August $d. — Friday, August ^th {July 23d, Rus- 
sian Style). — Yesterday, at 3 o'clock, I went to see the train 
come in, and, fortunately, my uncle was there. 

He could remain but a quarter of an hour, because, at the 
Russian frontier at Wirballen, he had, with great difficulty, 
obtained permission to come here without a passport; he had 
given his word of honor to a custom officer to return by the 
next train. 



200 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Chocolate ran in search of my aunt; there were but a few 
minutes left. When she arrived, we had time to say but two 
words. My aunt, in her uneasiness for me, on entering the 
tavern, imagined she had remarked a strange look in uncle, 
and by all sorts of half-spoken words, discouraged me so that 
I also became uneasy. Finally, at midnight, I entered the 
carriage; my aunt was weeping. I kept my eyes raised and 
fixed that they might not overflow. The conductor gave the 
signal, and for the first time in my life I found myself alone! k 

I commenced to weep aloud, but if you think I did not 
profit by it! I studied from nature how to weep. 

"Enough, my child," said I, arising. It was time. I was 
in Russia. In descending I was received in the arms of my 
uncle, of two gendarmes, and of two custom officers. They 
treated me like a princess, they did not even examine my lug- 
gage. The station is large, the functionaries are elegant and 
excessively polite. I thought myself in an ideal country — 
everything is so well done. A simple gendarme here, is better 
than an officer in France. 

And here, let me make a remark in justification of our poor 
Emperor, whom we accuse of having strange eyes. All those 
who wear caps (and there are quite a number in Wirballen) 
have eyes like the Emperor. I do not know whether it depends 
on the caps, which fall over the eyes, or whether it is imita- 
tion. As to imitation, it is well known that in France all 
the soldiers resembled Napoleon. 

I was given a compartment to myself, and after speaking of 
business and other things with uncle, I went to sleep, enraged 
about my dispatch to A — , 

At the refreshment-rooms in the stations, which are neatly 
kept, I had very good things to eat. 

My compatriots awake in me no particular emotion, no such 
ecstasy as 1 have experienced in returning to countries I have 
already seen; but I feel much sympathy for them, and there 
comes to me a strong sentiment of contentment. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKiRTSEFF. 201 

And then, everything is so comfortable, everybody is so polite; 
there is in the countenance of each Russian so much cordiality, 
so much kindness, so much frankness, that it rejoices the heart. 

Uncle came to awaken me at 10 o'clock this morning. 

They burn wood on the locomotives, which spares us from 
the dirt of coal. I awoke quite clean, and passed the day 
conversing, sleeping, and looking through the window at our 
beautiful flat Russia; but this country reminds one of Rome. 

At half-past 9 it was still day-light. We had passed 
Gatchina, the ancient residence of Paul I., so persecuted dur- 
ing the life of his haughty mother, and, at last, here we were at 
Tzarskoe-Selo, and in twenty-five minutes we reached SC 
Petersburg. 

I descended at the Hotel Demouth, accompanied by an 
uncle, a maid, a negro, followed by a lot of luggage, and 50 
roubles in my pocket. What do you say to that? 

While I was at supper in my parlor, which was large enough, 
but without carpet and with an unpainted ceiling, uncle entered. 

" Do you know who is here — who is at my house?" asked he. 

" No. Who?" 

"Guess, princess." 

"I do not know!" 

" Paul Issayevitch. May he come in?" 

"Yes; let him come in!" 

Issayevitch is in St. Petersburg with the Governor-General 
of Wilna, M. Albedinsky, who is married to a former favorite 
of the Emperor's. 

He received my dispatch from Eydtkiihnen at the moment 
of his departure. Being on duty, he had charged his friend, 
Count Mouravieff, to come and meet me. But this count was 
disturbed in vain, as we passed Wilna at 3 in the morning, 
and I was fast asleep. 

Who will deny my kindness, after I have told that I was gay. 
this evening, because I felt Issayevitch was glad to see me? 
Is it egoism? 



202 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I was singularly rejoiced over the pleasure that I caused 
another. In short, here is an escort to attend me at St. 
Petersburg. I am at St. Petersburg! 

But, so far, I have seen only drochki. The drochki is a one- 
place vehicle with eight springs (like Binder's large carriages) 
and one horse. I have seen the Cathedral of Kasan, with its 
colonnade after the style of St. Peter's at Rome, and many 
" drinking houses." 

On all sides, I hear the praises of the Princess Marguerite — 
so simple, so kind! they say. Simple — no one appreciates 
simplicity in a woman who is not a princess; be simple, and 
kind, and amiable, and be not queen, and inferiors will take 
liberties, whilst your equals will say, good little soul! and will 
prefer in everything women who are neither simple nor good. 

Ah! if I were queen! It is I who would be adored; it is 
I who would be popular! 

The Italian princess, her husband, and her suite, have not 
yet left Russia — they are at present visiting Kieff. " The 
mother of all Russian cities," as the great Prince St. Wolde- 
mar said, after having become a Christian, and having baptized 
half of Russia in the Dnieper. 

Kieff is the richest city in the world in churches, convents, 
monks, and relics; and as to the precious stones possessed by 
these convents, their value is fabulous. There are cellars 
which are as full of them as in the tales of a Thousand-and- 

€ 

One-Nights. 

I saw Kieff eight years ago, and I still remember those sub- 
terranean corridors filled with relics, which encircle the city, 
which pass under all the streets and connect the convents with 
each other, thus giving kilometres of corridors lined to the 
right and left with tombs of saints. Oh, God! forgive the 
wicked thought, but it is not possible that there were so many 
saints as that! 

Sunday, August 6th. — Instead of visiting the churches I 
slept, and Nina took me to breakfast at her home. Her parrot 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 203 

talked, her girls screamed, I sang; we could have believed 
ourselves at Nice. A coupe with two places gave shelter to 
the three graces who, in a pouring rain, went to see the 
Cathedral of Issakie celebrated for its columns of malachite, 
and of lapis lazuli. These columns are extremely rich, but in 
bad taste, for the green of the malachite, and the blue of the 
lapis lazuli, destroy each other. The mosaics and the paint- 
ings are ideal — real figures of saints, of the Virgin, and of 
angels. The whole church is of marble; the four facades, 
with their granite columns, are beautiful, but they are not in 
harmony with the golden byzantine dome. And in general, we 
receive a certain painful impression of the whole exterior, for 
the dome is too important, and crushes the four small domes 
surmounting the facades, which would otherwise be so beau- 
tiful. 

The profusion of gold and ornaments in the interior pro- 
duces the most happy effect; the variety is harmonious and in 
the best taste, excepting the two columns of lapis lazuli, which 
would be sumptuous anywhere else. 

A marriage of the lower class was being celebrated. The 
bride and groom were homely, and we did not look at them 
long. 

I love the Russian people- — good, brave, loyal, simple. 
These men and women stop before every church and chapel, 
before every niche with images, and cross themselves in the 
middle of the street, as if they were at home. 

After seeing the Cathedral of Issakie, we went to that of 
Kasan. Again a marriage, and a charming bride! This 
cathedral is built in imitation of St. Peter's at Rome, but the 
colonnade seems out of place; it does not seem to belong to 
the building; it is not extensive enough, so that the half-circle 
is not formed, and all this gives a disadvantageous and 
unfinished appearance to the whole church. 

Further on, on the Newsky, is the statue of Catherine the 
Great. 



204 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And in front of the Senate, near the winter palace, which is, 
by the way, an immense barracks, is the equestrian statue of 
Peter the Great, one hand pointing to the Senate, the other to 
the Neva. The people give this double indication a peculiar 
interpretation. The Czar, they say, points to the Senate with 
one hand and to the river with the other, meaning that it were 
better to drown one's self in the Neva than to plead at the 
Senate. 

The statue of Nicholas is remarkable, in that it is not sup- 
ported by the two legs and the tail of the horse, three supports, 
but only by the legs; this wonder gave me a lugubrious 
reflection: The commune will have less to do, the support of 
the tail being wanting. 

I dined alone with my graces, Uncle Etienne and Paul for 
spectators. They speak of themselves seriously as my court; 
they tease me horribly. I care to see only Giro and Marie. 

It is raining, and I am hoarse. I am writing to mamma: 
" St. Petersburg is a dirty place! The pavements are atrocious 
for a Capital; we are unmercifully jolted; the winter palace is 
a barracks, so is the grand theatre; the cathedrals are rich, 
but odd and badly constructed." 

And if you add to this the climate, you will have the charm 
complete. 



I tried to feel some emotion when looking at the portrait of 
Pietro A — , but he does not seem handsome enough for me to 
forget that he is a villain, a creature I can but scorn. 

I am angry with him no longer, for I despise him com- 
pletely, not on account of personal insult, but for his manner 
of living, for his weakness. Wait, I will define the sentiment 
which I have just named. The weakness which urges us 
toward what is good, to tender sentiments, to the forgiveness 
of injuries, may be called by that name. But the weakness 
which urges us to evil and wickedness is called cowardice. 

I thought I would feel more the absence of my family, still 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 205 

I am not contented, but that is caused more by the presence of 
disagreeable and common people (my poof uncle, in spite of 
his good looks) than the absence of those I love. 

Monday, August jt/i {July 26th), 1876. — "We have nothing 
original but the Middle Ages," I have said in the last book of 
my journal. 

We? Who? The Christians. In reality, has the world been 
regenerated, or is it that under other conditions the same cus- 
toms flow as they have flowed since the beginning of the world, 
tending always toward amelioration? 

The lives of nations resemble streams that flow slowly, at 
times over rocks, at times over sand, at times between two 
mountains, at times under the ground, at times through an 
ocean with which they mingle, but out of which they come the 
same, changing name and even direction, but only to pursue 
always the same thing, that which is fixed and unknown. 

By whom? 

God, or nature? If God is nature, we are but imbeciles, for 
nature has nothing to do with m^n and their interests. 

In classes of philosophy, we prove very clearly the existence 
of a Supreme Being, by taking as an example the mechanism 
of the universe; do we prove the existence of a God such as 
we imagine Him to be? 

The occupations of nature are to move the planets and 
attend to the physical wants of our world. But our intellect? 
but our soul? We must admit a God other than the vague 
idea of a personification of universal mechanism. 

We must? Why? 

At this point I was interrupted, and I have lost the thread 
for the present. 

I went to the post to get my photographs and a dispatch 
from my father. He telegraphs to Berlin that my arrival will 
be for him " a true happiness." 

Having found Giro in bed, I remained some time with her; 
a chance word started us to speak of Rome, and I related to 



20B JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

her, in a lively manner, my adventures in that city. I inter- 
rupted myself only to laugh. Giro and Marie rolled in their 
bed in merriment. An incomparable trio! I laugh thus only 
with my graces. 

Then by a reaction, sudden if not natural, I fell back into 
melancholy on my return. 

I returned at midnight with uncle and Nina. 

St. Petersburg improves at night. I know of nothing more 
magnificent than the Neva, ornamented by lanterns contrast- 
ing with the moon and the deep-blue, almost gray, sky. The 
defects of houses, of pavements, of bridges, melt away in the 
obliging shadows of night. The surface of the wharves 
appears in all its majesty. The peak of the Admiralty is lost 
in the sky, and in an azure mist encircled with light, we see the 
cupola and the graceful form of the Cathedral of Issakie, 
which seems a floating shadow descended from the sky. 

I would like to be here in winter. 

Wednesday, August gth {July 28//$), 1876. — I am penniless. 
Agreeable situation! Uncle Etienne is an excellent man, but 
he always hurts my feelings. This morning I was very angry; 
but half an hour afterward, I was laughing as if nothing had 
happened, at the home of the Sapogenikoffs. 

Doctor Tchernicheff was there. I would have liked to ask 
him for a remedy for my hoarseness; but I had no money, and 
that gentleman does nothing for nothing. Very delicate 
position, I assure you. But I do not weep in advance. Mis- 
fortune is annoying enough when it comes, without weeping 
beforehand. 

At 4 o'clock, Nina and the three graces left in the carriage 
for the Peterhoff station. All three dressed in white, under 
long dusters. 

The train was leaving and we got on without tickets; but, 
provided with the escort of four officers of the guard, who were, 
no doubt, tempted by my white feather and by the red heels of 
my graces. Then, here we are, myself and Giro, like noble 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 207 

military horses at the sound of music, the ear on the watch, 
the eye brilliant, and in joyous humor. 

On my return, I found a supper, my Uncle Etienne, and 
money sent to me by Uncle Alexander. I ate the supper, dis- 
missed my uncle, and hid the money. 

And then, strange thing, I felt a great void, a sort of sad- 
ness; I looked at myself in the mirror, my eyes were as on 
the last night at Rome. The recollection came back into my 
heart and into my head. 

That night he prayed me to remain another day. I closed 
my eyes, and believed myself to be down below. 

"I shall remain," I murmured, as if he were there, "I shall 
remain for my love, for my betrothed, for my beloved! I love 
you, I wish to love you, you do not deserve it, it does not 
matter, it pleases me to love you." 

Suddenly, taking a few steps in the room, I began to weep 
before the mirror — tears in small quantity, quite enhance my 
beauty. 

Having excited myself through caprice, I calmed myself 
1 through fatigue, and began to write, laughing softly at 
, myself. 

Thus, often, I invent a hero, a romance, a drama, and I laugh 
; and weep over my invention as if it were reality. 

I am enchanted with St. Petersburg, but there is no sleep 
i here; it is already day-light, the nights are so short. 

Thursday, August 10th {July 29th), 1876. — This night is a 
memorable night. I cease definitely to consider the Duke of 
1 H — as my beloved shadow. I saw at Bergamasco's, a portrait 
of the Grand Duke Vladimir. I could not tear myself from 
this portrait; beauty, more perfect and more agreeable, we 
can not imagine. Giro and I became enraptured, and we 
ended by kissing the portrait on the lips. Have you ever 
remarked the pleasure obtained by kissing a portrait? 

We did as all the young ladies from the Institute would do. 
It is the. fashion to adore the Emperor and the Grand Dukes; 



208 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

besides, they are all so perfectly handsome that there is nothing 
astonishing in that, but I carried away from this pasteboard 
kiss a strange melancholy and enough to dream over for an 
hour. I adored the duke when I might have adored a Prince 
Imperial of Russia; it is stupid, but we can not control these 
things, and then, in the beginning, I considered H — as my 
equal, as a man for me. I have forgotten him. Who will be 
my idol? No one. I will look for fame and a man. 

My overburdened heart will overflow, as it has overflowed 
at random, in the roadway, in the dust; but without emptying 
this heart, constantly refilled by generous springs which will 
never be exhausted in its depths. 

Where did you read that, Mademoiselle? In my intellect, 
silly readers. 

I am then free, I adore no one, but I search the one I 
shall adore. This must be very soon; life without love is a 
bottle without wine. But still, the wine must be good. 

The lamp of my imagination is lighted, shall I be more 
happy than the coarse fool called Diogenes? 

Saturday, August 12th (July 31st). — Everything was ready, 
Issayevitch had said good-bye, the Sapogenikoffs were with me 
at the station, when — Oh, bother! — we were short of money, we 
had made wrong calculations. I was obliged to wait at Nina's 
until 7 o'clock at night, that uncle might procure money for 
me in the city. 

At 7 o'clock I started, considerably humiliated by the 
adventure, but agreeably agitated at the moment of departure, 
by the appearance of a dozen officers of the guard followed 
by six soldiers in white, carrying banners. These brilliant 
youths had just attended two officers who, with the author- 
ization of the government, were leaving for Servia. Serviais 
causing a real desertion. Since the Emperor will not declare 
war, all Russia subscribes money, and is aroused in the cause 
of the Servians. Nothing else is talked about. The heroic 
deaths of a colonel and several Russian officers are spoken of 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 209 

in terms of enthusiasm. We can but be moved to pity for our 
brothers who are tranquilly left to be strangled and hacked 
to pieces by those atrocious Turkish savages; by that nation 
without genius, without civilization, without morals, without 
glory. 

And to think I can not subscribe a sou! 

One hour before arriving, I placed my book aside that I 
might see Moscow well, our true capital, the city truly Russian. 
St. Petersburg is a German copy — as copied by Russians, it 
is, nevertheless, worth more than Germany. 

But here, everything is Russian — architecture, cars, houses, 
the peasants, who by the roadside look at the passing train, 
the small wooden bridge thrown across a sort of river, the 
mud in the road — all is Russian, all is cordial, simple, religious, 
loyal. 

The churches, with their cupolas in the form and color of a 
green fig, produce an agreeable impression when approaching 
the city. The coxcomb who took my bundles, took off his cap 
and bowed to me as if we were friends, with a wide smile, full 
of respect. We are far from either French impudence or 
German gravity — so stupid and clumsy! 

I did not cease looking through the window of the carriage, 
which was provided for us to reach the hotel. 

It is cool, but not that damp and unhealthy coolness that 
belongs to St. Petersburg. The city — the largest in Europe 
in area — is ancient; the streets are paved with big, irregular 
stones; they are themselves irregular. We go up and down, 
we turn at every instant amid houses of few stories; very often 
one story only, but high and with large windows. The 
luxury of space is a thing so common here that no attention 
is paid to it, and the heaping up of one story above the other 
is unknown. 

The " Bazar-Slave " is a hotel like the Grand Hotel in Paris. 
We even find the same circular grand restaurant. But, although 
perhaps not so luxurious as the Grand Hotel, the " Bazar-Slave " 
14 



210 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

is infinitely cleaner and infinitely cheaper, and especially in 
comparison to the Hotel Demouth. 

The porters of the houses are dressed in a black vest, 
pantaloons inside their boots, which come up to their knees, 
and a cap of astrakhan. 

In general, we see many national costumes. Each province 
wears its own peculiar dress, and we do not see those odious 
German jackets, and the German signs are more scarce; but 
there are some — I say it with regret — there are some. 

I was much troubled in choosing a cab, the drivers urged 
us with so much eagerness that we feared, in giving the prefer- 
ence to one, to mortally hurt the feelings of the others. At 
last we entered a sort of phaeton, excessively narrow, and then 
commenced a course of obstacles. The stones of the pave- 
ment, the rails of tram-ways, the passing people, the carriages. 
We went through all this as fast as the wind, jolted at every 
instant, and often almost thrown out of the carriage. Uncle 
was groaning with uneasiness and I Was laughing at him, at 
myself, at our wild running, at the wind, which was blowing 
my hair and burning my cheeks. I laughed at everything; and 
at every church, every chapel, at every niche with images, I 
crossed myself devoutly, in imitation of the good people of 
the street. What surprised me disagreeably, were the bare- 
footed women. 

I went into the passage of Solodornikoff to buy a white 
ruche. I walked up and down in there, my head high, my 
hands hanging by my side, and my mouth smiling as if at 
home. I want to leave to-morrow; I can not buy anything, I 
have but just enough to reach Uncle Etienne's home. 



The arch of triumph of Catherine II. is painted red, with 
green columns and yellow ornaments. In spite of the extrava- 
gance of colors, you can not believe how pretty it is; besides, 
it is in harmony with the roofs of the houses and of the 
churches, which are nearly all covered with sheets of green or 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 211 

dark-red iron. This artlessness of exterior ornaments fills 
you with a sense of comfort, in making you feel the good sim- 
plicity of the Russian people; and the Nihilists are already at 
work undermining that. Mephistopheles perverts Marguerite. 
The propaganda does its infamous work, and the day when 
these good people — excited, deceived — will arise. . . it 
will be terrible; for, if in time of peace and calm they are 
meek and simple as a lamb, in revolution they will be angry 
unto ferocity, cruel unto frenzy. 

But love for the Emperor is still great, thank God, and so is 
respect for religion. There is something touching in the devo- 
tion and loyalty of the people. 

On the square of the Grand Theatre are seen entire flocks 
of gray pigeons. They are not at all frightened by carriages, 
and the wheels pass within two finger-widths of a pigeon with- 
out troubling him. As you are aware, Russians do not eat 
these birds, because it is under the form of a dove that the 
Holy Ghost is represented. 

I do not want to visit anything this time. Moscow requires 
a week's time. In returning, with money, I will see all the 
historical curiosities. I caught but a glimpse of the Kremlin; 
for, at the moment it was pointed out, my attention was 
absorbed by a hackney coach, the exterior of which was 
painted in imitation of malachite. 

Among the names displayed in the vestibule of the hotel, I 
read that of the Princess Souwaroff. I immediately sent 
Chocolate to ask if she would receive me. Chocolate returned 
and told me Madame la Princesse would be out until 7 o'clock. 

Uncle Etienne is sleeping, and I am writing in the parlor. 

On the back of the breakfast bill-of-fare is printed a pas- 
sionate appeal to the people, and to the Russian clergy, from 
the Slavonic Committee of Moscow. This heart-rending 
proclamation was given to me this morning. I shall keep it. 

The appeal has stirred my soul. Why do they not go and 
ask the Emperor for war? If all the nation, arising, threw 



212 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

themselves at the knees of the Emperor, beseeching him to go 
to the rescue of their brothers, abandoned to the fury of sav- 
ages, who would dare say no? 

But the Nihilists, there is the misfortune; the troops once 
removed, they would rouse all the galley-slaves and rogues 
and establish a small commune to begin with. 

Imagine to be there, in the heart of your country, so beau- 
tiful in itself, and so full of hopes for the future, and to feel 
yourself threatened by all these horrors! I would like to take 
it in my arms and carry it far away, like a child whose eyes, 
mouth, and ears we close that he may not hear the blas- 
phemies nor see the obscenities. 

My God! how could I have kissed his face? I, the first? 
Fool, execrable creature! Ah! that is what makes me weep 
and shudder with rage! Turpis, execrabilis! 

He believed it was very simple for me, that it was not the 
first time, that it was a formed habit! Vatican and Kremlin! 
I suffocate with rage, and shame! 



A cup of broth, a hot calatch, and some fresh caviar, there 
is an incomparable commencement of a dinner. The calatch is a 
species of bread, but one must go to Moscow to have an idea 
of it, and the calatch of Moscow is almost as celebrated as the 
Kremlin. With one portion of assetrine, I was given two 
immense slices, which in another country would be divided 
into four (it is needless to say that I did not eat it all). 
Furthermore, I had a veal cutlet fifty centimetres square, 
surrounded with small peas and potatoes, an entire chicken, 
and a saucer filled with caviar, representing "a half portion." 

Uncle Etienne laughed and told the servants that in Italy 
there would be enough for four. The servant, tall and thin 
as Gianetto Doria, immovable as an Englishman, answered 
without budging, and without changing expression, that this 
was the reason of the small stature and thinness of Italians; 
but the Russians, he added, like to eat plenty, that is why 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 213 

they are strong. On this, the immovable brute deigned to 
smile, and went out like a wooden puppet. 

The quantity is not the only advantage of the eatables here, 
for they are of the most exquisite quality. When we eat well, 
we are in good humor; when we are in good humor, we 
regard happiness with more joy, and misfortune with more 
philosophy, and we feel agreeably disposed toward our neigh- 
bor. Exaggerated greediness is a monstrosity in a woman, 
but a little greediness is as necessary as intellect, as dress, 
without taking into account that good and simple food main- 
tains the health, and consequently youth, the freshness of the 
skin, and the roundness of the form. Witness my body. 
Marie Sapogenikoff says, with reason, that, for such a body, a 
much more beautiful face is required, and bear in mind that I 
am far from being homely. When I think of what I shall be 
when I am twenty, I am filled with delight. At thirteen I was 
too fat, and I was taken for sixteen. Now I am slender, well- 
formed, and remarkably curved, perhaps too much so. I 
compare myself to all the statues, and I find nothing so well 
curved, or so large across the hips as I. Is it a defect? But 
the shoulders require to have a little more roundness — But what 
was I saying? Oh, yes, that I asked for tea. I was served a 
samovar, twenty-four pieces of sugar, and cream enough for five 
cups of tea. Both exquisite. I always liked tea, even when 
bad. I drank five cups (small) with cream, and three without 
cream, like a true Russian. 

True Russians and their two capitals are entirely new for me. 

Before going to foreign countries, all I knew of Russia was 
Little Russia and the Crimea. 

The few Russian peasants who were in the habit of coming 
to Nice as strolling merchants, seemed almost like strangers, 
and we ridiculed their costumes and their language. 



I may say all I please, it is not the less true that my lips are 
polluted since that profaning kiss. 



214 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Wise people, cynical women, I forgive you that smile of 
scorn for my affected candor! But, really, I think that I lower 
myself by even admitting the possibility of my being dis- 
believed. Must I again swear? Ah, no! it seems to me that 
I do enough in telling my least thoughts, especially when I am 
not obliged to do so. I do not make a merit of it, for my 
journal is my life, and in the midst of all these pleasures, I 
think: How much I shall have to relate to-night! As if it were 
an obligation! 

Monday, August i^th (August 2d). — Yesterday, at 1 o'clock, 
we left Moscow, which was full of commotion and decked with 
flags in honor of the arrival of the Kings of Greece and Den- 
mark. 

During all the journey, Uncle Etienne positively provoked me. 

Imagine the perusal of a study on Cleopatra and Mark 
Antony interrupted every instant by such phrases as these: 
Will you eat? You are perhaps cold? Here are roast chicken 
and cucumbers? Perhaps a pear? Do you wish the window 
closed? What will you eat oh your arrival? I telegraphed to 
have your bath prepared, our queen; I ordered one of marble 
to be made, and all the house has been prepared to receive 
Your Majesty. 

Incontestably kind but inexcusably tiresome. 






as if 



Some well appearing gentlemen were courting Amalia 
she were a lady. Chocolate astonished me by his emancipated 
spirit, and his cat-like nature, ungrateful and crafty. 

At the Grousskoe station we were received by two carriages, 
six peasant servants, and my naughty brother, tall and stout, 
but handsome as a Roman statue, with comparatively small 
feet. An hour and a half of driving to Chpatowka, during 
which I got a glimpse of the animosity which exists between 
my father and the Babanines. I held my head high, and kept 
in check my brother who is, moreover, enchanted to see me. 

I do not wish to take either part, I have need of my father. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 215 

" Gritzko " (a Russian country nickname for Gregoire) 
" remained here two weeks, awaiting you," said Paul to me, 
"we thought you would never come." 

" And is he gone?" 

" No, I left him at Poltava; he wishes very much to see you. 
* You understand,' said he to me, 'I have known her since she 
was a little speck of a girl.' " 

" Then he thinks himself a man and believes me a little girl 
still?" 

"Yes." 

" That is what I am. How is he?" 

" He still speaks French; he goes into the best society of 
St. Petersburg; he is said to be avaricious, but he is only sen- 
sible and as he should be. We wished, he and I, to receive 
you with a band of music at Poltava; but papa said that was 
due to queens only." 

I notice that my father fears to appear pompous and vain. 
I shall reassure him very quickly. I adore all those follies 
that he is extremely fond of. 

Eighteen versts of plowed fields, and at last the village com- 
posed of low and poor huts! All the peasants uncovered their 
heads in advance, on perceiving the carriage. Those good 
faces, patient and respectful, affected me. I smiled on them, 
and, all astonished, they replied with smiles to my friendly little 
bows. 

The house has but one story, small, with a large and ill-kept 
garden. The peasant girls are well formed, beautiful, and 
piquant in their costumes that set off their figures and leave 
their legs naked to the knee. 

Marie, my aunt, received us on the porch. I took a bath, 
and we then dined. I have had several skirmishes with Paul. 
He tried to exasperate me, perhaps unwillingly, in obedience 
to orders given him by his father. I haughtily put him back 
in his place, and it was he who was humiliated, where he wished 
to humiliate me, I read him thoroughly. Incredulity as to 



216 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

my success, home thrusts relative to our position in society. 
I am called nothing but "queen;" my father wishes to dethrone 
me; I will make him bend. I know him, for I am his own 
daughter in many ways. 

Tuesday, August i$th {August 3d). — The house is gay and 
bright as possible, flowers everywhere; the parrot talks, the 
canaries sing, the servants run about. About 11 o'clock the 
sound of bells announced a neighbor. It was M. Hamaley. 
Would we not say an Englishman? Well, not at all, an ancient 
noble family of Lower Russia. His wife is one of the Prod- 
gers of this place. 

My baggage not having arrived (we got off a station sooner 
than we should), I showed myself in a white wrapper. What 
immense difference between myself now and myself a year 
ago! A year ago I scarcely dared speak, " I knew not what to 
say," like Marguerite ; now I am grown up. This gentle- 
man took breakfast with us. What can I say of him and of 
all those I shall see? Excellent people, but smelling of the 
provinces a league away! 

Toward dinner, which follows breakfast closely, another 
visitor, a brother of the aforesaid young man — has traveled 
much, in spite of which he is very obliging. The sudden 
arrival of my eight trunks procured us two romanzas sung by 
myself, and some piano playing. Finally, I occupied myself 
with my embroidery, while entering with all my heart into a 
conversation on the politics of France, showing a knowledge 
above my sex. 

The second Hamaley, a man with a heavy beard, remained 
until 10 o'clock. j 

For an hour longer I fatigued my poor voice, scarcely yet 
recovered from the rude climate of St. Petersburg. 

In this happy Chpatowka we do nothing but eat; we eat, 
then we walk for half an hour, then we eat again, and it is like 
that all day. 

I was walking slowly, leaning on Paul's arm, with my 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 217 

thoughts wandering, no one knows where, when, passing under 
branches which fell very low above our heads and formed a 
ceiling of interlaced leaves, I tried to imagine what A — would 
say if I were on his arm walking along this walk. He would 
say to me, leaning slightly toward me, he would say to me, in 
that soft and penetrating tone, in which he speaks to me only, 
he would say: " How happy we are here together, and how I 
love you!" 

Nothing can give any idea of the tenderness of his voice 
when he speaks to me, when he says things meant for me 
alone. His tiger-cat manners, his eyes that burn you, and that 
enchanting voice, gentle and vibrating, that murmured word 
of love, which seemed to complain or plead with so much 
humility, so much tenderness, so much passion! He made use 
of this for me only. 

But it was an empty tenderness which meant nothing, and if 
it seemed real it was only his manner, for there are some peo- 
ple who appear always hurried, and others astonished, and 
others sad, without being so in reality. 

Ah, how I would like to know the truth of all this! I wish 
to return to Rome, married; otherwise, it would be a humilia- 
tion. But yet, I do not want to marry, I want to be still free, 
and above all to study. I have found my vocation. 

And frankly, to marry to pique A — , would be stupid. 

It is not that, but I wish to live like the rest of the world! 

I am dissatisfied with myself to-night, and I do not know 
why in particular. 

Wednesday \ August 16th {August <\th). — A crowd of neigh- 
bors, the cream of this noble locality. Among others, a lady 
who has been to Rome, loves antiquity, and possesses a 
daughter who does not speak. In a manner, sudden as well 
as unexpected, there came to us three angels — the judge of 
instruction, the notary, and the secretary. My uncle, who has 
been a Justice of the Peace for the State seven years, has 
always some business with these functionaries. 



218 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

In two years he will be Counselor of State, and he longs to 
be decorated. 

I dressed myself in blue silk, and neat little slippers. 

These nice gentlemen did not irritate me, like those musty 
people at Nice, they simply made me laugh heartily; they did 
not venture to approach me; we admired each other from a 
distance. 

Sunday \ August 20th {August St/i). — I left, accompanied by 
my brother Paul, who waits upon me very well. At Kharkoff 
we waited two hours. My Uncle Alexander was there. He 
was, notwithstanding my dispatches, almost astounded to 
see me. He spoke of my father's great anxiety; how ter- 
ribly uneasy he was for fear that I would not come to his house. 

He continually asked for the dispatches which I sent to my 
uncle, that he might know at what point I was in my journey. 

In a word, the greatest eagerness was displayed to see me; 
if not through love, at least through self-love. 

Uncle Alexander made a few sarcastic remarks about my 
father; but my policy is, to remain neutral. He procured me 
a coupe, by presenting me to the Colonel of Gendarmes, 
Menzenkanoff, who gave up his own to me. 

I feel well in my own country; everybody knows me, myself, 
or mine, and there is nothing equivocal in my position; I walk 
and breathe freely. But I would not live here. Oh, no, no! 

This morning, at 6 o'clock, we arrived at Poltava. Nobody 
at the station. 

As soon as I reached the hotel, I wrote the following letter; 
bluntness is often the best policy: 

ri I arrive at Poltava, and I find not even a carriage. 
4 ' Come immediately. I expect you at noon. Truly, I have not had a 
suitable reception. 

Marie Bashkirtseff." 

The letter had scarcely gone, when my father rushed into 
the room, and I threw myself into his arms, without too much 
eagerness, however. He was visibly satisfied with my face, 



ii 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 219 

for his first care was to examine my whole appearance with a 
kind of feverish haste. 

" How tall you are! I did not expect it, and pretty; yes, 
yes, well — very well, in fact." 

" It is thus you receive me — not even a carriage! Have you 
received my letter?" 

"No; but I have just received the tel.egram, and I hastened 
to come. I hoped to arrive in time for the train. I am 
covered with dust. To come faster, I got in the troika of 
little E— ." 

" And I wrote you a pretty letter." 

"Like the last dispatch?" 

"Something." 

"Very well — yes, very well." 

" I am accustomed to be waited on." 

" Like me; but, you see, I am as capricious as a devil." 

" And I am as capricious as two!" 

" You are used to being run after." 

"And I must be run after; I insist upon it!" 

" Ah, no, that sort of thing will not do with me!" 

"You can do as you please, but you will have to suffer 
the consequences." 

" But why treat me in this lofty manner? I am a jovial com- 
panion, a young man, behold!" 

" Exactly; so much the better." 

" But I am not alone, I am with Prince Michel E — , 
and Paul G — , your cousin." 

"Invite them in." 

E — is a perfect little dude — exceedingly amusing, ridicu- 
lous, bowing low, engulfed in pantaloons three times the 
proper size, and in a collar which reaches to his ears. 

The other is called Pacha* — his family-name is too diffi- 
cult. He is a strong and robust fellow, light blonde, clean- 
shaven, Russian looking, square build, frank, serious, sym- 

* Diminutive for Paul. 



220 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

pathetic, but taciturn, or much preoccupied. I do not yet know 
which. 

I was awaited with an immense curiosity. My father is 
enraptured. My figure enchants him; the vain man is proud 
to show me off. 

. We were ready, but had to wait for the servants, and the 
baggage, that the procession might be more imposing — a four- 
horse carriage, a caleche, and a covered drosky, followed by 
the little prince's nonsensical troika. 

My genitor looked upon me with satisfaction, and restraining 
himself with great effort, tried to appear calm, and even 
indifferent. 

Moreover, it is his nature to hide his feelings. 

Half-way, I climbed into the drosky, that I might go like the 
wind. At the end of twenty-five minutes, we had gone over 
ten versts. We were still two versts from Gavronzi, and I then 
returned to my father, that he might have the satisfaction of 
an imposing arrival. 

The Princess E — (Michel's step-mother, and my father's 
sister) met us on the porch. 

" Eh!" ejaculated my father, " how tall she is, and interesting. 
Is it not so — eh?" 

He must have been very proud of me, to venture on such 
an exhibition of feeling before one of his sisters (but this one 
is an excellent woman). 

A steward and others came to congratulate me on my 
happy arrival. 

The property is picturesquely situated— hills, a river, trees, 
a beautiful house, and several small houses. All the out-build- 
ings in perfect order, and the garden well kept; moreover, the 
house has been remodeled, and almost entirely refurnished 
this winter. 

They live in great style, while affecting simplicity, and an 
air of saying: " It is thus every day." 

Naturally, champagne for breakfast. An affectation of 



r 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 221 

aristocracy, and a real simplicity, which relieves the stiff- 
ness. 

Portraits of ancestors, proofs of antiquity, which are only 
too pleasing to me. 

Beautiful bronzes, porcelains of Sevres and Saxony, objects 
of art. In truth, I did not expect so much here. 

My father poses, as an unfortunate man abandoned by his 
wife — he, who desired nothing better than to be a model 
husband. 

A large portrait of mamma painted in her absence. 

Tokens of regret to the memory of lost happiness, and bursts 
of hatred against my grandparents who destroyed this happiness. 

Enormous care is taken to make me feel that my arrival 
changes nothing in the habits of the household. 

There was a game of cards, during which I worked at my 
canvas, from time to time saying a few words, which were 
listened to with curiosity. 

Papa left the card-table' and seated himself near me, giving 
up his hand to Pacha. I talked with him while embroidering, 
and he listened to me with a great deal of attention. 

He then proposed a walk in the country. I walked at first 
leaning on his arm, then on the arm of my brother, and of the 
little prince. We stopped to see my nurse, who pretended to 
be affected to tears. She had nursed me but three months — 
my true nurse is at Tchernakovka. We walked a long distance. 

"It is to give you an appetite," said my father. 

I complained of the fatigue, and spoke of my fear of the 
grass, on account of snakes and other " ferocious animals." 

The father is reserved, the daughter also. Were it not for 
the princess, Michel, and the other, it would be a thousand 
times more agreeable. 

He made me sit beside him to see the athletic feats and 
gymnastics of Michel, who had learned the " trade " in a cir- 
cus, which he followed to the Caucasus, all on account of a 
little equestrienne. 



222 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEF F. 

When I was in my own room, I remembered one of my 
father's expressions, spoken at random or purposely, and 
enlarging it in my own imagination, I sat down in a corner 
and wept for a long time, without budging or moving my eyes, 
but keeping them fixed on a flower in the wall-paper— crushed, 
weary, and at times despairing even unto indifference. 

This is what it was about. We spoke of A — , and I was 
asked all sorts of things concerning him. According to my 
usual habit, I replied with reserve, and did not enlarge on the 
subject of my conquests, leaving them to be guessed or sup- 
posed, and then my father, with great indifference, said this: 

" I have heard it said that A — was married three months ago." 

And once in my own room I did not reason, I remembered 
that phrase. I threw myself on the floor and remained there 
stupefied and miserable. 

I looked at his letter. The words " I have need of the con- 
solation of one word from you," have confused my heart, and 
I almost begin to accuse myself, me! 

And then — Oh, what horror to believe you love that which 
you must not! For I must not love a man like him — a being 
almost ignorant, a being weak, dependent. I have not even 
love, I have only weariness. 

I was given a green bed-room and a blue parlor. Is it not 
quite strange, when we think of my peregrinations since that 
winter? And since I have been in Russia, how many times 
have I changed guides, lodgings, places? 

I change lodgings, relatives, acquaintances, without the 
least astonishment or that strange feeling I experienced for- 
merly. All those beings, indifferent or patronizing, all these 
instruments of luxury or utility, become a confused mass in 
my mind and leave me calm and cold. 

How can I succeed in bringing my father to Rome? 

Bother, bother, bother! 

Tuesday, August 22'd (10///). — Life here is far removed from 
the frank hospitality of my Uncle Etienne, and of my Aunt 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 22o 

Marie, who gave up their rooms to me, and waited on me like 
negroes. 

But then it is very different. There, I was in a friendly 
country, at home; here, I come, braving the established rela- 
tions and treading under my little feet hundreds of quarrels 
and millions of disagreements. 

My father is a reserved man; bruised and crushed from his 
infancy by the terrible General, his father, no sooner was he 
free and rich than he launched into dissipation and half-ruined 
himself. 

Puffed up with self-love and puerile pride, he prefers to 
appear a monster rather than show what he feels, especially 
when he is moved by something — and in that he is like me. 

A blind person could see how enchanted he is to see me, and 
he even shows it a little when we are alone. 

At 2 o'clock we left for Poltava. 

This morning we have already had a skirmish over the 
Babanines, and, while in the carriage, my father went so far as 
to insult them in the name of his lost happiness, accusing 
grandmamma of everything. The blood rushed to my face 
and I requested him, in a harsh tone, to leave the dead in their 
graves. 

" Leave the dead!" cried he, "why I could almost say that 
if I could take the ashes of that woman and — " 

" Enough, father! You are impertinent and ill-bred!" 

" Chocolate might be impertinent, but not I!" 

" You, dear father, and all those who are wanting in deli- 
cacy and education! I will not listen to such talk. If I have 
the delicacy to be silent, it is ridiculous for others to mur- 
mur. You have nothing to do with the Babanines, you may 
meddle with the affairs of your wife and children — as to 
the others, do not speak of them, as I do not speak of your 
own relatives. Appreciate my consideration and do as much." 

In speaking thus, I felt the greatest admiration for myself. 

" How can you say such things to me?" 



224 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" I say it, I repeat it— I regret being here." 

I turned my back to him, for I was choking with tears and 
rage. 

And then my father commenced to laugh, embarrassed and 
confused, trying to embrace me and take me in his arms. 

"Come, Marie, let us make peace; we will never speak of 
that again. I will never mention it to you, I give you my 
word of honor!" 

I resumed my natural position, but without giving any token 
of pardon or good-will, which made papa increase his ami- 
ability. 

My child, my angel (I am speaking to myself), you are an 
angel — positively an angel! You always did know how to 
behave, but you never had the opportunity. Now only do you 
commence to apply your theories to reality! 

At Poltava, my father is king; but what a frightful kingdom! 

My father is over-proud of his two Isabella horses. When 
they were brought to us, harnessed to the barouche, I scarcely 
deigned to say " Very pretty!" 

We went through all the streets — deserted as Pompeii. 

How can people live thus? But I am not here to study the 
customs of the city, so let us pass on. 

"Ah!" said my father, "if you had come a little sooner, 
we had people here then, we could have arranged a ball or 
some other amusement. Now, there is not even a dog left — 
the fair is over." 

We went into a store to order some canvas. This store is 
the rendezvous of the dudes of Poltava; but we found no one 
there. 

At the public gardens, the same thing. 

My father, I know not why, will introduce me to no one; 
perhaps it is through fear of too much criticism! 

In the middle of dinner, M — arrived. 

Six years ago, when we were at Odessa, mamma saw 
Madame M — frequently, and her son Gritz came every day 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 225 

to play with Paul and me, and made love to me, bringing me 
bon-bons, flowers, and fruits. 

They laughed at us, and Gritz said he would never marry 
any other woman but me; to which a certain gentleman never 
missed replying: 

"Oh! Oh! what a boy! he wants a minister for a wife." 
The M — 's came with us as far as the steamer which was to 
take us to Vienna. I was excessively coquettish, although 
very small. I had forgotten my comb and Gritz gave me his 
own, and, at the moment of parting, we kissed each other with 
the permission of our parents. 

"Jours fortunes de notre enfance 
Oil nous disions, maman, papa! 
Jours de bonheur et d' innocence, 
Ah! que vous etes loin dejaV' 

" You know, adorable cousin, Gritz is a little stupid, and a 
little deaf," said Michel E — , while M — was coming up the 
steps of the gallery at the restaurant. 

" I know him well, dear coxcomb, he is not more stupid 
than you and I, and he is a little deaf because of an illness, 
and more so because he puts wadding in his ears through fear 
of taking cold." 

Many persons had already come up to shake hands with my 
father, impatient to be introduced to the daughter just arrived 
from foreign lands; but my father made no move, putting on 
an expression of disdain, looking at me the while. I began to 
fear he would do the same with Gritz. 

" Marie, permit me to present you Grigori Lvovitch M — ," 
said he, however. 

"We have known each other for a long time," said I, gra- 
ciously extending my hand to the friend of my infancy. 

He is not at all changed; the same brilliant complexion, the 
same dull expression, the same mouth, small and slightly dis- 
dainful, a microscopic mustache. Faultless in dress and of 
excellent manners. 

15 



226 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

We looked at each other with curiosity. Michel made sar- 
castic grimaces. Papa blinked his eyelids as usual. 

I was not at all hungry; it was time to go to the theatre, 
which is in the garden, like the restaurant. 

I proposed that we walk a little and go there afterward. 
My model of a father rushed between Gritz and me, and when 
it was time to go to the "theatre, he hastened forward and 
quickly offered me his arm — a true father, on my honor, as 
we read of in books. 



We had an immense proscenium box, draped with red cloth — 
opposite the prefect's. 

I received a bouquet from the prince, who passes the day in 
making me declarations, to receive such speeches as: Go 
away, dear boy! — or — You are the flower of dudes, my cousin! 

A small audience and an insignificant drama. But our 
box contained of itself much to interest me. 

Pacha is a curious man. Frank and straightforward, even 
to childishness; he takes everything seriously, and speaks just 
as he thinks, with so much simplicity, that it sometimes seems 
to me that he hides under this good-nature an immense fund 
of sarcasm. He remains sometimes ten minutes without say- 
ing anything, and when spoken to, he starts as if he had been 
dreaming. When, at a compliment from him, I smile and 
say: " How amiable you are!" he is offended and goes off to 
a corner murmuring: "I am not at all amiable; if I say it, 
it is because I think it." 

I placed myself in front to gratify my father's vanity. 

"Behold!" said he, "behold! here I am playing the role 
of a father now! It is funny. Why, I am still a young 
man, I!" 

"Ah, ah, papa, there is your weakness! Well, you shall 
be my elder brother and I will call you Constantine. Does 
that do?" 

" Perfectly." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 227 

M — and I desired very much to converse, we two, together; 
but Paul, E — , or papa prevented it as if on purpose. Finally, 
I placed myself in the corner, which is like a little box by itself, 
overlooking the stage and allowing me to see the preparations 
of the actors. Naturally, Michel followed me; but I sent him 
to get me some water, and Gritz seated himself beside me. 

" I have been awaiting your arrival with impatience," said 
he, examining me curiously, " You are not at all changed." 

" Oh, that grieves me! I was homely at ten years of age." 

" No, no, but you are still the same." 

" Humph!" 

" I now see the meaning of this glass of water!" mewed 
the prince, offering me one. " I see it well!" 

" Take care! you will spill it on my dress, if you hold it in 
that way!" 

" You are unkind, you are my cousin, and you are always 
speaking to him" 

"He is the friend of_my childhood, and you, you are a 
charming dude of a day." 

We found that we still remembered all sorts of trifles. 
"We were both children, but how well we remember all that 
happened when we were children together! Is it not so?" 

"Yes." 

M — is old-fashioned; it is so strange to hear this fresh and 
rosy boy speak of things, serious, domestic, useful! He 
asked me if I had a good maid, and then — 

" It is well that you have studied so much, for when you 
have children, it will be useful." 

"What an idea!" 

"What! am I not right?" 

"Yes, you are right." 

"Here is your Uncle Alexander," said my father to me. 

"Where?"' 

" There, opposite." 

In fact, he was there with his wife. 



228 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Uncle Alexander came to us and my father sent me to 
Aunt Nadine during the next entracte. The dear little 
woman was pleased and so was I. 

During one of the entr'actes, I went out into the garden with 
Paul, and my father ran after me and caught me by the arm. 

" You see," said my father to me, " how amiable I am toward 
your relatives; that proves I am well-bred.'' 

" Very well, papa; whoever wishes to stand well with me 
must bow to my will and serve me." 

"Ah, no!" 

" Ah, well! as I told you before, you must take the conse- 
quences, then; but admit that you are very happy to have a 
daughter like me — pretty, with a good figure, elegant, intel- 
lectual, educated. Admit it!" 

"I admit it is true." 

"Ah, ah! And without taking into account that you are 
young, and that everybody will be astonished to find that you 
have grown-up children." 

" Yes, I am still quite young." 

" Papa, let us take supper in the garden." 

" It is not proper." 

"Come, come, papa; with one's father, the marshal of the 
nobility, who is known to everybody, and who is chief of the 
youth, of the gilded youth of Poltava!" 

" But the horses are waiting." 

" That is what I wished to speak of, send them back and we 
will return in a cab." 

"You, in a cab? Never! And to have supper here is not 
proper." 

" Papa, when I descend from my dignity and find a thing 
proper, it is ridiculous that others should think otherwise." 

"We will have supper, then; but you know it is only to 
please you. I am tired of these amusements." 

We had supper in a private room (exacted by my father out 
of respect for me). 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 229 

My father, Paul, Uncle Alexander and Aunt Nadine, Pacha, 
E — , M — , and I. M — was continually trying to place my 
cloak on my shoulders, assuring me that I would take cold. 

We drank champagne. E — called for bottle after bottle, to 
give me the last drop. 

Several toasts were proposed, and the friend of my child- 
hood, taking his glass, leaned toward me, and said, softly: 
"To the health of Madame, your mother!" and* as he looked 
into my eyes, with a friendly air, I replied in a low voice also, 
with a look of cordial thanks and a friendly smile. 

A few minutes afterward, I said, aloud: 

" To mamma's health!" 

And we drank again. M — watched my least gesture, and 
tried visibly to conform himself to my opinions, to my tastes, 
and even my pleasantries; and to embarrass him I amused 
myself by changing constantly. He listened to me all the 
time, and finally exclaimed: 

"Ah, but she is charming!" with so much artlessness, 
sincerity, and pleasure, that I was pleased myself. 

Aunt Nadine entered the barouche with papa and me. I 
went home with her, and we gossiped at our ease. 

"Dear Moussia," said my Uncle Alexander, "you have 
enchanted me. Your worthy conduct toward your relatives, and 
especially toward your father, has enraptured me. I had feared 
for you, but if you continue, all will be well, I assure you of it!" 

" Yes," said Paul, " if you remain one month only, you 
will rule father, and that will be a real happiness for us all." 

My father took a room next to mine, at the right, and made 
his servant sleep in my antechamber. 

"I hope she is well guarded," said he to my uncle. "You 
know I am a bon-vivant, a gay man; but, from the moment 
her mother confides her to my care, I will justify that confi- 
dence and I will fulfill my duty in a sacred manner." 

Yesterday, I borrowed 25 roubles from my father, that I 
might have the pleasure of returning them to him to-day. 



230 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

We departed in the same order as yesterday. 

We had scarcely reached the fields when my father asked me, 
suddenly: 

" Well, are we going to skirmish again to-day?" 

" As much as you like." 

He took me quickly in his arms, enveloped me in his cloak, 
and leaned my head upon his shoulder, 

I closed my eyes, that is my way of being affectionate. 

We remained thus for some minutes. 

" Now," said he, " stand up straight!" 

" Give me a cloak, then, for I am cold." 

He wrapped me in a cloak, and I began to speak of foreign 
countries, of Rome, and the pleasures of society, taking care 
to make him understand how pleasant it was in Italy, and speak- 
ing of Mgr. de Falloux, Baron Visconti, and the Pope. I also 
had much to say of the society of Poltava. 

" It is not right to pass one's life in losing at cards, in ruin- 
ing one's self buried in the provinces, in drinking champagne in 
the cabarets, in brutalizing one's self, and in rusting rather than 
living. Whatever one does, should always be done in good 
company." 

" Humph! You seem to imply that I am in bad company," 
he said, laughing. 

I talked on, and said so much, that finally he asked me how 
much it would cost to hire an apartment at Nice large enough 
to give entertainments in. 

" You know," he said, " if I should go there and settle down 
for the winter, the situation would be quite different." 

"Whose situation?" 

"That of the birds of the air," he said, with a laugh that 
showed he was piqued. 

" My situation? Yes, that is true. But Nice is a disagree- 
able city. Why not come to Rome this winter?" 

"I? Humph! Yes! Humph!" 

Well, the subject has been opened, and the seed has fallen 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 231 

on good ground. What I fear are the influences that may be 
brought to bear. I must manage so that this man will become 
used to me. I must strive to be agreeable to him, render my- 
self necessary to him, and act so that Aunt T — will find a wall 
between her brother and his wrong-doing. 

He is pleased to find me capable of conversing on all sub- 
jects, and as we went to dinner, I finished a conversation on 
chemistry with a certain Kapitanenko, an officer of the guard, 
who is absent on leave, and who is becoming brutalized by a 
provincial life and the eternal nonsense that is talked. 

My father said, as he rose: 

"It is true, Pacha, she is very learned." 

" You are joking, papa." 

"Not at all, not at all, but it is well, yes, ah! very well." 

Wednesday, August 23d (August 11th). — I have written to 
mamma almost as much as I have in my journal. That will 
do her more good than all the doctors in the world. I pretend 
to be very happy, but I ani not so yet. I have related every- 
thing in the most exact manner, but I shall not be sure of 
anything until the end of the story. We shall see some day. 
God is very good. 



Pacha is my real cousin, the son of my father's sister. He 
puzzles me. This morning we were talking, and my father's 
name was mentioned. I said that sons always criticised the 
actions of their fathers, and once in their place, did the same 
things, to be in their turn criticised by their children. 

"That is perfectly true," he said, "but my sons will not 
criticise me, for I shall never marry." 

After a moment, I replied: "There has never been a young 
man who has not said the same thing." 

" Yes, but it is not the same thing." 

"Why not?" 

" Because I am twenty-two, and I have never been in love, 
and no woman has ever even attracted me." 



232 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" That is quite natural. Before that age, a man ought not 
to fall in love." 

" What! How about those boys who begin at fourteen?" 

" Those affairs have nothing to do with real love." 

" Perhaps, but I am not like everyone else. I am hot-headed, 
and proud, and conceited, and then — " 

"But those qualities which you speak of—" 

"Are good ones?" 

"I think so." • 

Then, I don't remember why, he told me that, if his mother 
should die, he would go crazy. 

"Yes, for a year, and then — " 

" No, I should be crazy, I know it." 

" For a year, for everything is effaced by new faces." 

"Then you deny eternal sentiments and virtue?" 

"Positively." 

"It is strange, Moussia," he said. " how quickly people 
become intimate, when they are not affected. The day before 
yesterday, I said Maria Constantinovna; yesterday, Made- 
moiselle Moussia, and to-day, Moussia—" 

" Moussia simply, as I have ordered you." 

" It seems to me that we have always been together, your 
manners are so simple and engaging." 

"Yes?" 






I have been amusing myself by talking to the peasants that 
we meet upon the road and in the forest, and, do you know, 
I speak low Russian quite well. 

The Vorsklo, the river which flows through my father's 
village, is so shallow in summer that you can wade across it; 
but in winter it is a flood. I took a fancy to ride my horse into 
the water, and raising my habit, I immediately entered the 
river. It was agreeable to feel and charming to see. The 
horse was in up to his knees. 

1 was warmed by the sun and the ride, and I tried my voice, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 233 

which is beginning to return little by little. I sang the " Lacry- 
mosa " of the funeral mass, as at Rome. 

My father was waiting for us under the colonnade, and 
viewed us with a look of contentment. 

"Well, did I deceive you? Do I look bad in a riding habit? 
Ask Pacha how I ride. Do I look well?" 

"Yes — humph — very well, really." 

And he looked at me with evident satisfaction. 

I am far from regretting that I brought thirty gowns; my 
father must be captured through his vanity. 

At this moment, M — arrived with a bag and a servant. 
When he had saluted me, I answered the usual compliments, 
and went to change my dress, saying: " I shall be back soon." 
I returned dressed in a gown of Oriental gauze with two 
yards of train, a corsage of silk open before in the Louis XV. 
style and fastened by a large knot of white ribbon. The skirt 
is all of one piece and the train square. 

M — spoke of my toilet and admired it. 

He is said to be stupid, but he conversed on several sub- 
jects — music, art, and science. It is a fact, however, that it 
was I who did the talking and he only said: "You are per- 
fectly right; it is true." 

I was silent as to my studies, fearing to alarm him. But I 
forgot myself at dinner; I quoted a Latin verse and discoursed 
with the doctor on classical literature and the modern imita- 
tions of it. 

They cried out that I was astonishing, and that there was 
nothing in the world of which I could not speak, no subject 
of conversation where I was not at my ease. 

Papa made heroic efforts to conceal his pride in me. Then, 
a chicken with truffles started a culinary discussion, in which 
I showed a gastronomic knowledge which made M — 's eyes 
and mouth open still more. 

And then, passing to sophistication, I explained all the utility 
of good cooking, maintaining it made men virtuous. 



234 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I went up to the first floor. The salons are very large, 
especially the ball-room; a piano was placed there only yes- 
terday. 

I played. Poor Kapitanenko made despairing gestures 
to prevent Paul from talking. 

"Heavens!" exclaimed the good man, "I forget as I listen 
that I have rusticated in the provinces the last six years. I 
live again!" 

I did not play well to-night; I often slurred my work; and 
yet, there are things which I don't play badly. But it made 
no difference; I knew that poor Kapitanenko was sincere, and 
the pleasure that I gave him gave me pleasure also. 

Kapitanenko was on my left, Eristoff and Paul behind, and 
Gritz in front of me listening to me with a delighted counte- 
nance; I did not see the rest. 

When I had finished " Le Ruisseau," they all kissed my 
hand. 

Papa, lying upon a sofa, dozed. The princess sewed with- 
out saying anything, but she is a good woman. 

I breathe freely, I am in my father's house, my father is one 
of the head of the government, and I have neither lack of 
respect nor frivolity to fear. 

At 10 o'clock, papa gave the signal for retiring, confiding to 
Paul's care the young men, who are all lodged in the red house 
with him. 

I said to my father: " When I go away again, you will come 
with me." 

" I will think of it; yes, perhaps." 

I was satisfied; there was a pause, then they spoke of some- 
thing else, and when he retired, I went to the princess' room 
to remain a quarter of an hour with her. 

I have asked my father to invite Uncle Alexander here, and 
he has written him a very pleasant letter. 

What is your opinion of me? 

I say that I a-m an angel, provided God continues to be good, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 235 

Don't laugh at my devotion, or you will begin to find every- 
thing in my journal ridiculous. If I should undertake to 
criticise myself as I write, I should pass my whole life in 
doing so. 

Thursday, August 24th {August 12th). — At 9 o'clock I 
went to my father's room. I found him in his shirt sleeves, 
struggling with his cravat. I tied it for him, and kissed him 
on the forehead. 

The gentlemen came to take tea, Pacha among them; yes- 
terday evening, he was absent, and a servant came to say that 
he was "sick in bed." The others had laughed at his bearish 
attentions to me, and he is so deeply sensitive over the least 
thing that no one could get a word out of him this morning. 

E — brought for my amusement some ninepins, a game of 
croquet, and a microscope with a collection of fleas. 

At one time, there came very near being a scandal. It 
happened like this. Paul had taken out of his album the pho- 
tograph of an actress very well known by my father, and papa, 
noticing it, took out his own picture. 

" Why do you do that?" asked Paul, in astonishment. 

" Because I fear that you will throw away my pictures also." 

I paid no attention to this; but to-day, Paul, taking me aside, 
led me into a room, and showed me his album empty of all 
pictures except that of the woman in question. 

" I did that to please father, but I had to take out of the 
album all the other pictures; here they are!" 

" Let me see them." 

I selected ail the photographs of grandpapa, grandmamma, 
mamma, and myself, and put them in my pocket. 

"What doeg that mean?" exclaimed Paul. 

" It means," I answered, calmly, " that I take away our 
pictures, because they are in very bad company here." 

My brother was almost ready to cry; he tore the album in 
two, and left the room. I did this openly in the salon with 
people about, and my father will know of it. 



236 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

We took a long walk in the garden and visited the chapel, 
and the tomb containing the coffins of my grandfather and 
grandmother Bashkirtseff. M — was my escort and aided me 
to descend and ascend the steps. 

Michel followed me, imitating the mute/supplicating looks 
of a dog, and continually making despairing gestures toward 
Gritz. 

Pacha marched on ahead, and when he looked at me, his 
eyes had such a strange expression that I turned away my 
head. 

If mamma knew that at the supper of Poltava, I had, by 
accident, the last drop of a bottle of champagne, and that, in 
drinking my health, the arms of Nadine, Uncle Alexander, 
Gritz, and myself were crossed as for a marriage — poor mamma, 
how happy she would be! 

Gritz is certainly attentive, but I pray from the bottom of 
my soul that he will not propose to me. He is narrow, vain, 
and has a hateful mother. 

We were recalling our childhood, in the public garden of 
Odessa. 

" I was in love with you then." 

I answered with my best smiles, while the dude made 
imploring faces and begged me to let him carry my train. He 
did that yesterday, and received the nickname of train-bearer. 

We then played a game of croquet. 

Agreeably warmed by my exercise, I entered the Chinese 
room (so called because of the Chinese vases and images in 
it), and, seating myself on the ground, began to arrange my 
brushes and colors. My father was incredulous as to my 
talents. I made Michel sit down in an arm-chair and Gritz 



in another, and in fifteen minutes I made a caricature of 
Michel upon a board, which Gritz, whom I used as an easel, 
held. And as I made marks right and left with my pencil, I 
felt that he was devouring me with his eyes. 

My father was pleased and Michel kissed my hand. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 237 

I rose and sat down at the piano. Pacha listened to me 
from a distance. The others soon came in and placed them- 
selves as they did yesterday. But, passing from music to con- 
versation, Gritz and Michel spoke of a winter in St. Petersburg. 

" And I can imagine what you will do there," said I. " Do 
you want me to tell you your life now, and you can tell me 
afterward if I am mistaken." 

" Yes, yes." 

" In the first place, you will furnish an apartment with the 
most ridiculous furniture, sold by pretended antiquarians, and 
with the most ordinary paintings sold for originals. For, a 
passion for art and antiquities is the correct thing. Then you 
will have horses and a coachman who will indulge in familiari- 
ties; you will consult him, and he will meddle even in your 
affairs of the heart. You will go out with a single eye-glass 
upon the Newsky, you will see a group of friends, and you 
will descend to learn the news of the day. You will laugh 
until the tears come into your eyes at the sallies of one of 
those friends whose trade it is to say witty things. You will ask 
the date of Judic's benefit, and if anyone has been at Madame 
Damie's reception. You will make fun of the Princess 
Lise, and admire the young Countess Sophie. You will go 
into Borreel's, where there is doubtless a Frenchman, a Bap- 
tiste, or a Desire, who knows you, and who will approach you 
with a cringing bow, and tell you of the suppers that have 
taken place and that have not taken place; of the last scandal 
concerning Prince Pierre, and of Constance's adventure. You 
will swallow with a frightful grimace a glass of something 
strong, asking if what was served at the prince's last supper 
was better prepared than what was eaten at the supper you 
gave. And Baptiste or Desire will answer: ' The prince! 
can you think it, gentlemen?' He will tell you that he 
imported expressly for you a turkey from Japan, and truffles 
from China. You will throw him 2 roubles, with a glance 
about the room, and will enter your carriage to gaze at the 



238 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

ladies, staring boldly to the right and left, and exchanging 
remarks with the coachman, who is as big as an elephant, and 
who is celebrated among your friends for his ability to drink 
three samovars a day. You will go to the theatre and step upon 
the feet of those in front of you, and shake hands with, or 
rather, hold out your fingers to friends who speak to you of 
the success of the new actress, while you gaze at the women 
with your most impertinent air, thinking that you are producing 
an effect. And how mistaken you are! How the women see 
through you! You will ruin yourselves, prostrating yourselves 
before Parisian stars, who, extinct in Paris, have come to shine 
in your country. You take supper and you go to sleep upon 
the floor; but the waiters of the restaurant do not leave you in 
peace, they put pillows under your head and cover you up over 
your dress-coat steeped in wine and your rumpled shirt. You 
return home in the morning to go to bed, or rather, you are 
brought home. And how pale, ugly, and wrinkled you are! 
And how you even pity yourself! Then, then — toward thirty- 
five or forty, you fall desperately in love with a danseuse and 
marry her. She beats you and you play the most miserable 
part in the wings while she dances." 

Here I was interrupted. Gritz and Michel fell on their 
knees and demanded my hand to kiss, exclaiming that it was 
wonderful and that I spoke like a book. 

" Except," said Gritz, " the latter part of it. All is true 
except the danseuse. I shall marry only a woman in good 
society. I am a domestic man; I shall adore my home, my 
wife, and big, crying babies." 



We played a game of croquet and papa watched us. He 
noticed Gritz's attentions. How could he help being attentive? 
I am the only girl here. 

He was to have left at 4 o'clock, but at 5 he asked me if he 
could remain to dinner, and, after dinner, he declared that he 
preferred not to start on his journey at night. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 239 

I spoke of furniture, carriages, liveries, and the service of a 
house, and I was pleased to see how my father drank in my 
words and asked me various questions, forgetting his pride and 
reserve. 

Gritz talked a good deal, like a senseless boy, but with an 
affectation of a man of the world. 

I had all my photographs in my hand, and he asked me to 
give him one. I did not know how to refuse, and then he is 
an old friend, so I consented. 

But I refused the little medallion for which he was ready to 
give "two years of his life." 

Ah! Dio mio! 

Friday, August 2$th {August 13th). — M — and Michel went 
away after breakfast. 

My father proposed a walk to Pavlosk, his other property. 

He is perfect in his manner toward me; but to-day, I was 
nervous and spoke little. If I had attempted to talk, I should 
have burst into tears. 

But, as I thought of the effect that this complete absence of 
any festivals or gaiety would have upon mamma, I said to my 
father that I wanted society, and that I found my position 
strange and even ridiculous. " Well," he answered, " you shall 
have whatever you like. Do you want me to take you to see 
the prefect's wife?" 

II Yes." 

" Very well, we will go then." 

Reassured upon this subject, I could tranquilly visit the dif- 
ferent parts of the farm, and even enter into the various 
details, which did not amuse me much; but it might be useful 
for me, some day, to say a word or two which would show 
my agricultural knowledge, and to astonish someone, by speak- 
ing of the sowing of barley, and the qualities of wheat, in the 
same breath that I quoted a verse of Shakespeare, or delivered 
a tirade upon Platonic philosophy. 

You see, I derive advantage from everything. 



240 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Pacha procured me an easel, and, about dinner-time, I 
received two large canvases sent from Poltava by M — . 

" What do you think of M— ?" asked papa. 

I said what I thought of him. 

"Well," said Pacha, "he did not please me at first, but 
afterward I liked him." 

" And did I please you at first sight?" I asked. 

" You? Why?" 

" Come, tell me." 

"Well, yes, you did. I did not expect to find you what you 
are. I thought that you did not know how to speak Russian; 
that you were affected, and — " 

"That will do. Very well." 

I said that the country and the fields, already despoiled of 
their products, produced a sad effect upon me. 

"Yes," said Pacha, " everything is yellow and withered. 
How time flies! It seems as if spring were only yesterday." 

"It is always so. Ah! we are fortunate in the South; we 
have not such marked changes." 

"But then, you don't enjoy the spring!" exclaimed Pacha, 
eagerly. 

" That is all the better for us. Sudden changes affect the 
equanimity, and life is much better when one is calm." 

"What do you mean?" 

" I mean that spring, in Russia, is a time favorable to vil- 
lainy and deception." 

" What?" 

" During the winter, when all about us is cold, silent, and 
sombre, we are sombre, and cold, and defiant. When the 
warm, sunny days arrive, we are transformed, for the state of 
the weather has an enormous influence over the character, the 
temper, and even the convictions of man. In the spring we 
feel happier, and we are, consequently, better; hence, we are 
incredulous of evil and baseness. How, when everything is 
so beautiful, and when I am so happy, so filled with enthu- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 241 

siasm, and so thoroughly disposed to good, how can there be 
any place for bad thoughts in the hearts of others? That is 
what one says to one's self. Well, with us at home, we do not 
experience these feelings, or, at least, more feebly; whence, I 
conclude that we are in a more normal state, and one which 
undergoes but slight fluctuation." 

Pacha mustered up courage, after this, and asked me for my 
portrait, to wear in a locket all his life. 

" For I honor and love you, as I do no one else!" 

The princess opened her eyes wide, and I laughed, as I held 
out my hand for my cousin to kiss. 

He hesitated, blushed, and ended by obeying me. 

He is a strange, half-savage man. This afternoon, I spoke 
of my contempt for the human race. 

" Ah, is it so?" he cried. " I am a coward, a wretch then!" 

And red and trembling, he rushed from the room. 

Saturday, August 26th [August 14th).— The country is weari- 
some! 

With incredible rapidity, in the course of thirty-five minutes, 
I sketched two portraits — my father's, and Paul's. 

How many women in this world could say as much ? 

My father, who had estimated my talent as vain boasting, 
recognized it, and was pleased; and I was overjoyed, for, to 
paint, is to advance toward one of the ends I have in view. 
Every hour passed in any other occupation than that, or in 
flirting (for flirting leads to love, and love to marriage, per- 
haps), is like a weight on my heart. To read? No. To act? 
Yes. 

This morning, my father entered my room, and, after a few 
commonplace speeches, there was a silence, during which I 
felt that he had something to say. and as I wished to talk of 
the same thing, I purposely held my tongue, partly not to be 
the one to open the subject, and partly to have the pleasure of 
seeing the hesitation and embarrassment of another than 
myself. 



242 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" Humph! — then — what did you say?" he asked, at last. 

" I, papa? Nothing." 

" Humph! — you have suggested— humph! — that I should go 
with you to Rome — humph! — but how?" 

"Why, it is very simple." 

"But—" 

He hesitated, and pulled about my brushes and combs. 

" But if I go with you — humph! — and mamma — she will not 
come, will she? And then, you see — humph! — what can we do?" 

Ah, ah, naughty papa! We are there, are we? You are the 
one who hesitates. Charming! I like this. 

" Mamma? Mamma will come." 

"Ah!" 

" Mamma, besides, will do anything that I want. She no 
longer exists — there is only I." 

Then, plainly relieved, he asked me many questions as to 
the manner in which mamma passed her time — a host of 
things, in fact. 

Why did mamma warn me as to papa's wicked temper, and 
his habit of abashing people and humiliating them? I think 
I can divine the truth. 

But why am I neither humiliated nor abashed, while mamma 
was so always? 

Because my father has more intellect than mamma and not 
so much as I have. Besides, he has enormous respect for me, 
for I always beat him in discussion, and my conversation is 
full of interest for a man buried in Russia, but who has 
enough knowledge to appreciate learning in others. 

I recalled to him my desire to see the people of Poltava, and 
I saw clearly by his responses that he did not wish to show me 
those people among whom he is accustomed to shine. But 
when I told him that I absolutely wished it, he replied that it 
should be according to my desire, and he began, with the aid 
of the princess, to make a list of the ladies that we must go 
and see. 



I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 243 

" Do you know Madame M — ?" I asked. 

" Yes; but lam not going to see her; she lives very retired." 

"But I must go to her house with you. She knew me when 
I was little. She is a friend of mamma's, and then, when she 
saw me last, I was a very rude little girl and not at all pre- 
possessing, so I desire to efface the bad impression I made." 

" Well, we will go. But, if I were in your place, I would not." 

"Why?" 

"Because — humph! — she may think — " 

"What?" A 

" Oh, all sorts of things!" 

" But tell me. I like people to explain themselves clearly 
and hints make me impatient." 

" She will think that you have designs. She will believe 
that you would like her son as a suitor." 

"Gritz M — ? Oh, no, papa! She will not think that, and 
besides, M — is a charming young man, a friend of my child- 
hood, whom I like very much; but to marry him! No, papa, 
he is not the husband I desire! Have no fear." 



The Cardinal is dying. 

Miserable man! (I mean the nephew.) 

At dinner we were speaking of bravery, and I said a remark- 
ably true thing. It was that the one who is afraid and faces 
danger is braver than the one who is devoid of fear, for the 
more fear one has the more merit there is in subduing it. 

Sunday \ August 27M [August 15/^). — For the first time in 
my life, I have punished someone — I mean Chocolate. 

He wrote to his mother, asking her permission to remain in 
Russia at much larger wages than those I give him. This 
ingratitude made me ashamed of him, and calling him, I 
exposed his bad behavior before everybody, and ordered him 
to go down on his knees. 

The boy commenced to cry, and did not obey. Then I was 
obliged to take him by the shoulders, and, more through shame 



244 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

than by force, he knelt down, almost knocking over a little 
table covered with Sevres china. And I, erect in the middle 
of the room, launched at him the thunders of my eloquence, 
and ended by telling him that I should send him back to 
France, fourth-class, with cattle and sheep, by the help of the 
colored consul. 

" Shame, shame, Chocolate! You will grow up to be a bad 
man. Rise! Fie! Go!" 

I was really excited, and when, five minutes afterward, the 
monkey came to beg my pardon, I told him that if he only 
repented because induced to do so by Monsieur Paul, I did 
not want his repentance. 

" No, it is myself." 

" Then you repent of your own accord?" 

He cried, with his fists in his eyes. 

"Tell me, Chocolate, I will not be angry." 

«Y— yes." 

"Well, go, I forgive you; but you must understand that it 
was all for your good." 

Ah! Chocolate will be a great man or a great rascal! 

Monday, August 2&t/i {August 16th). — My father has been to 
Poltava; he was on service there. I tried philosophy with the 
princess; but it degenerated into a conversation upon love, 
men, and kings. 

Michel brought Uncle Alexander, and Gritz arrived later. 

There are some days when I am ill at ease. To-day, is one 
of them. 

M— brought a bouquet to the princess. In the evening, 
I was very anxious that Uncle Alexander should see how 
attentive Gritz was to me, but all in vain. The imbecile never 
left Michel. 

He is stupid, and everybody says so here. I have tried to 
defend him, but this evening, either from conviction or from 
bad temper, I share the opinion of everybody else. 

When they had departed for the red house, I sat down at 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHICiRTSEFF. 245 

the piano and tried to work off, by playing, all the weariness 
and irritation I felt. And now I am going to sleep and to 
dream of the Grand Duke Nicholas. That will amuse me, 
perhaps. 

The moon is insipid here. I looked at it while they fired off 
a cannon. My father has gone to Kharkoff for two days. The 
cannon is one of his vanities. . He has nine pieces of artillery, 
and this evening they fired them off, while I looked at the 
moon. 

Tuesday, August 29th {August 17 th). — Yesterday, I heard 
Paul say to Uncle Alexander, with a glance at me: 

"If you only knew, dear uncle! She has turned everything 
topsy-turvy at Gavronzi. She has remodeled papa in her 
own fashion. Everything and everybody bows down before 
her." 

Really, have I done all that? So much the better. 

I have been sleepy and tired since this morning. I do not 
admit yet that I am bored because of lack of distraction or 
amusement, and when I am bored I seek a reason for it, per- 
suaded that this more or less great malady comes from some- 
thing, and that it is not a simple effect of solitude or the 
lack of amusement. 

But here at Gavronzi, I desire nothing, I regret nothing, 
everything goes as I would like to have it, and yet I am bored. 
Must I then think simply that I don't care for the country? 
Nescio. But what difference does it make? 

When they sat down to cards, I remained in my studio with 
Gritz and Michel. There is no doubt about it — -Gritz is 
changed since yesterday. There is a certain embarrassment 
in his manner I can not explain. 

His departure is put off until Thursday, and he wishes to 
go away for a long journey. 

I was preoccupied and they noticed it. For some time, 
indeed, I have hovered between two worlds. People speak 
to me and I do not hear. 



246 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The gentlemen went to bathe in the river which is beau- 
tiful, deep, and shaded with trees at the bathing-place; and I 
remained with the princess upon a large balcony, which forms 
a covered entrance for carriages. 

The princess told me, among others, a curious story. Yes- 
terday, Michel came to her and said: " Mamma let me be 
married." " To whom?" " To Moussia." " You goose, you 
are only eighteen!" He persisted so seriously that she was 
obliged to scold him soundly. " But, dear Moussia," she 
added, " don't tell him I have told you; he would eat me 
up." 

The gentlemen, on their return, found us still on the bal- 
cony, burning up with the exasperating heat, for there was 
no air to speak of, and in the evening no breeze at all. But 
the view was charming. In front, the red house and the pavil- 
ions scattered here and there; on the right, the mountain, half- 
way up which is the church buried in foliage, and higher still 
the family tomb; on the left, the river, fields, trees, space. 
And to think that all this is ours; that we are sovereign 
masters of it all; that all these houses, this church, and the 
court-yard, which is like a little city, all, all belong to us; and 
the domestics, almost sixty, and all! 

I waited impatiently for dinner to be over so that I could 
see Paul and ask an explanation of certain words spoken at 
croquet, and which annoyed me exceedingly. 

" Haven't you noticed," said Paul to me, "that Gritz has 
changed since yesterday?" 

" I? No, I haven't noticed it." 

"Well, I have, and it is Michel's fault." 

" How?" 

" Michel is a good boy, but he has been only with women of 
a certain class and he does not know how to behave himself; 
besides, he has a bad tongue, the proof of which is the story of 
the other day. He said that he would — in short, he is madly in 
love with you and capable of all the villainies in the world. I have 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 247 

spoken to Uncle Alexander about it, and he said that I ought 
to box his ears. Aunt Nathalie is of the same opinion. Wait! 
I must tell you that Gritz has been persuaded by his mother or 
by his acquaintances that people are trying to trap him into a 
marriage, because of his large fortune. Well, up to yester- 
day, he lauded you to the skies, and yesterday — Of course, 
I know that you don't want him, that you don't care a rap 
about all this, but still, it is not pleasant. And Michel is to 
blame with his gossip." * 

" Yes, but what can be done?" 

" You must speak to him, make him understand; you have 
enough brains for that and more, too; he is stupid, but you 
can make him understand — -in fact, you must. When we are 
at dinner, I will help you, and you can tell some story or 
other that will make him see the point." 

That was my idea, also. 

"We shall see, brother." 



Uncle Alexander came to the theatre after us, and he heard 
people speaking of the arrival of " Bashkirtseff 's daughter, 
who is a great beauty." 

In the foyer, he was seized by Gritz, who spoke enthusi- 
astically of me. 

When we returned home, I could not prevent myself from 
making a picture on the grand staircase. I sat down half- 
way up; the gentlemen who were going up with me seated 
themselves lower upon the stairs, and the prince knelt. Have 
you seen the engraving representing Goethe's "Eleonore?" It 
was like that, even my costume, except that I looked at no 
one; I looked at the lamps. 

If Paul had not extinguished one of them, we would have 
remained there a long time. 

Good-night! Ah, how weary I am! 

Wednesday, August 30//Z {August \ZtJi). — While the young 
men were pursuing the housekeeper with fire-crackers which 



248 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

they threw at her legs, the princess, Uncle Alexander, and I 
spoke of the Pope of Rome. 

I pretended to be anxious about the Cardinal's death. 

I dreamed that Pietro A — was dead. I approached his 
coffin and placed on his neck a topaz rosary with a gold cross. 
Scarcely had I done so, when I saw that the dead man was 
not Pietro. 

To dream of a corpse is a sign of marriage, I believe. 
You can imaginerny irritation, and with me irritation is shown 
by immobility and absolute silence. And woe to the one who 
teases me or even makes me speak! 

They talked of the morals of Poltava. Depravity is very 
widespread here, and they say that Madame M — , in a 
dressing-gown, has been met at night in the street with Mon- 
sieur J — , as if it were an ordinary thing. 

The young ladies behave with extreme levity; but when they 
began to talk of kisses, I took refuge in my chamber. 

" A young man was in love with a young girl, who loved 
him in return; but, after some time, he married another, and, 
when asked the reason of the change, he answered: ' She kissed 
me; therefore, she must have kissed others, or she will do so!' ' 

" He was quite right ? " said Uncle Alexander. And all men 
think the same thing. 

But it is unjust in the highest degree, and the speech has 
sent me to my room, enraged beyond measure. 

It seemed as if they were speaking of me. Then, this was 
the reason of it all! 

But, in the name of heaven, grant me power to forget! Oh, 
God, have I committed a crime, then, that You torture me so 
much? 

You are right, Lord, and my conscience, by leaving me not 
a moment in peace, will cure me. 

What neither education, books, nor advice could teach me, 
I have learned by experience. 

I thank God for it, and I advise young ladies to be a little 






JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 249 

more selfish at the bottom of their hearts, and to guard them- 
selves well from feeling any sentiment whatever. 

The more beautiful the sentiment is, the easier it is to ridi- 
cule it; the greater it is, the funnier it is. And there is nothing 
in the world more absurd and more degrading than love which 
is ridiculed. 

I will go to Rome with my father; I will go into society, 
and we shall see. 



A delightful drive. The prince's troika, despite Uncle Alex- 
ander's weight, went like the wind. Michel drove. I love to 
go fast; the three horses tore along, and for some minutes I 
was filled with delight and excitement. Then, croquet detained 
us until dinner, about which time M — arrived. I was already 
trying to think of " a story," when the princess happened to 
mention the R — girls. 

"They are very nice, but very unfortunate," said Gritz. 

"Why?" 

" Because they do nothing but travel about in search of hus- 
bands, and they never find them. By the way, they tried to 
catch me." 

Here, everybody burst out laughing. 

" To catch you?" asked someone ; "Did you please them, then?" 

" Well, I rather think — ; but, anyway, they soon saw that I 
would not have it." 

"Just to think!" I exclaimed, " It must be very unfortunate 
to be like that, without counting the discomfort given to others!" 

Everyone laughed, and glances were exchanged which were 
anything but flattering for poor M — . 

Oh, well, you see, it is a very unfortunate thing to be a sim- 
pleton! 

In his manners this evening, I remarked the same constraint 
as yesterday. He fancied, possibly, that we were trying to 
ensnare him. 

All that comes of Michel! 



250 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Gritz scarcely dared to speak to me across the length of the 
drawing-room, and it was almost half-past 9 ere he risked 
himself at my side. I smiled with disdain. • 

Heavens, how stupid it is to be stupid! I was formal and 
severe, and gave the signal for departure. 

I know perfectly well that Michel stuffs him with all sorts of 
ridiculous notions. 

The princess once said to me: " You can never conceive of 
Michel's villainy; he is bad and clever." 

But how unfortunate to be a fool! 

Thursday, August $\st {August igt/i). — Paul, utterly dis- 
concerted, came to tell me that papa did not wish us to go on 
a picnic to the forest. 

I threw on a wrapper and went to tell him we were going. 

At the end of ten minutes, he joined me. 

After a lot of very funny misunderstandings, we set out for 
the forest; I in excellent spirits, proof against everything. 

Gritz is as easy as the first day, and restraint and discomfort 
have vanished from our intercourse. 

We were as well served in the forest as at home. Everyone 
was hungry and ate heartily, while making merry at Michel's 
expense; for he was to have managed the party, but this 
morning he denied it shamelessly, and the provisions came 
from Gavronzi. 

There was some shooting, and a Jew was made to amuse us 
with his stupidity. In Russia, the Jew is a creature who holds 
a place between the dog and the ape. The Jews know how to 
do everything, and are made use of for everything. They are 
robbed of their money, beaten, and made drunk; business is 
confided to them, and they serve for amusement. 

On re-entering my room, I was so worn out that I should 
have spent the night in crying, if Amalia had not begun gab- 
bling at a rate that diverted the current of my thoughts. 

It is best to shake off the blues, and avoid tearful scenes and 
lowness of mind. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 251 

Moreover, I detest myself when I make these scenes. 

Poor Gritz! At the present moment I pity him, for he left 
somewhat ill 

Saturday, September 2d {August 21st). — I have been fainting 
with the heat, and, when near dinner-time, there arrived two 
crocodiles of Poltava, I made a grand toilet; but my spirits 
were very low. They set off fireworks, and we looked on 
from the balcony which was all decked out with Venetian 
lanterns, as was the red house and all the court-yard. 

Afterward, the night being wonderfully beautiful, father 
proposed a walk. I changed my dress, and we went into the 
village. 

We seated ourselves in front of the cabaret, where a violinist 
and a mountebank were called up to dance for us. But the 
violinist, being accustomed to play only second fiddle, would 
never understand that the first was absent, and insisted on 
playing his second part. After listening half an hour, we slipped 
off to the house with perfidious intentions, to-wit: My father, 
Paul, and I, climbed up a dizzy ladder into the belfry and 
rang the fire-bell. I rang with all my strength. I was never 
before so close to a bell, and I found that if one attempts to 
speak while it is ringing, one experiences a sort of terrifying 
feeling at the first instant; for the words seem to die at the 
lips, as in a nightmare. 

Well, all that did not prove very amusing, and I was very 
glad to get back to my room, to which my father accompanied 
me, and we had a longissime conversation. 

But I was worn out, and instead of talking, I cried the 
whole time. Among others, he spoke to me about M — , saying 
that mamma had doubtless indicated him to me as an excellent 
parti, but that he would not take a step to arrange the match, 
as M — was nothing but a golden beast. I hastened to 
reassure him. After that, we spoke of everything. Father 
tried to affect firmness, but I did not yield an inch, and we 
parted on excellent terms. Moreover, he displayed, as has 



252 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

been his manner for some time past, an exquisite delicacy, and 
in his dry, bluff way, said to me things so tender that they 
touched me deeply. I do not trouble myself on account of 
his sister T — ; I even told father that she dominates him, and 
that, for this reason, I can not count on him. 

" Me!" he exclaimed, " Oh, no! Why, of all my sisters she 
is the one I care for the least. Rest easy; when she sees you 
here, she will fawn upon you like a dog, and you will see her at 
your feet." 

Sunday \ September 3d {August 2 2d). — It appears that I am 
amusing myself. I have been borne in a rug like Cleopatra; 
I have tamed a horse, like Alexander; and I have painted like 
— someone who is not yet Raphael. 

This morning a number of us went fishing. Extended 
upon a rug (I pause to say that it would not do to have any- 
one suspect me of rolling on the ground) on the bank of the 
river, which is deep and beautiful at this point, in the shade 
of the trees, eating watermelons brought by the crocodiles from 
Poltava, we passed comfortably enough a couple of hours. 
On the return it was that I played Cleopatra, letting them 
carry me in the rug as far as the gate, and there we met Michel 
and Kapitanenko, who improvised a litter for me, by joining 
hands; and finally, Pacha carried me by himself. Having thus 
exhausted the various means of locomotion, I found myself at 
the foot of the grand staircase, which I mounted without 
assistance; but with Michel still dangling at the end of my train. 

I was charming at breakfast — I mean as far as my toilet 
goes. I wore a Neapolitan blouse of pale-blue crepe de Chine, 
trimmed with old lace; a long skirt of white taffeta and rich 
Qriental stuff, striped with white, blue, and gold, draped in the 
most perfect manner. You could not imagine anything more 
odd and pretty. 

While some were playing cards and others howling at the 
heat, someone spoke of the Isabella horses, praising their 
youth, strength, and freshness. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 253 

For several days, the question of my riding one of them had 
been discussed; but it had aroused a torrent of fears, and I 
had not urged the matter. Finally, to-day, partly through 
shame of my cowardice and partly to give the crocodiles some- 
thing to talk about, I ordered one of the animals to be sad- 
dled. 

While I was waiting, my father kept glancing from me to 
the crocodiles, and seemed contented with the impression I 
made. My costume was odd, but still very becoming, and I 
wore upon my head a piece of white foulard, low over my 
forehead, drawn together behind and with the ends hanging 
down, after the manner of the Egyptians, covering all the back 
of my neck. They brought the horse, and there was a chorus 
of objections. Finally, Kapitanenko, in memory of his service 
in the horse-guards, mounted him; but as soon as the horse 
started, he was so bounced about, that the charitable spectators 
began to laugh as stupidly as could be. 

The horse reared, stopped short, ran, and Kapitanenko 
declared, in the midst of the general gaiety, that I could ride 
him — in three months. I looked at the trembling beast, whose 
skin was everywhere covered with veins, as when the wind 
wrinkles the surface of water,. and I said to myself: "You 
must give these people an exhibition of your false bravery, my 
child, you must behave like a girl of high degree, so that the 
crocodiles shall have nothing to say to your disadvantage. You 
are afraid? So much the better, for those only are brave who 
are afraid and do battle with what they fear. Bravery does not 
consist in doing a thing which others are afraid of and which 
does not alarm you; but real, true bravery is the forcing 
one's self to do something that one fears." 

I ran upstairs, put on my black habit and a black velvet cap, 
and descended again to mount the horse. 

I walked him first slowly about the lawn, with Kapitanenko 
by my side on another horse. Feeling the eyes of the com- 
pany fixed upon me, I returned to the veranda to reassure 



254 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

them; my father and another gentleman entered a cabriolet, 
the others took their places in the prince's troika, and followed 
by the two carriages, I rode down the avenue. I don't know 
how, but quite simply it seemed to me, I trotted, then galloped, 
and returned to the carnages to be overwhelmed with flat- 
teries. 

I was delighted, and my scarlet face seemed to breathe fire 
like the nostrils of my horse. I was radiant! A horse that 
had never been ridden! 

In the evening there were fireworks, the houses were 
illuminated, and my initials were displayed on all sides. There 
was a village band and the peasants danced. 

The table was laid on the other side of the house, and we 
walked through the curious crowd. 

»< Why, it is a regular church procession," said a woman in 
the crowd, "and there is the body of Our Lord. 

In fact, we were lighted by torches, and Michel carried my 
train, and you know that they carry on Good Friday a picture 
representing the body of Jesus. 

Michel performed some acrobatic feats, while the village 
boys watched him in amazement; clinging to the ropes and the 
swings, and looking, in the darkness, like the figures swinging 
on gibbets one sees in ghastly, old engravings. 

I was surrounded by the people, and both men and women, 
to gain my favor, loaded me with compliments like this, for 
instance: . 

" The horse was beautiful this afternoon, but the rider far 
surpassed him!" 

You know how I adore to mix with the common people, so I 
spoke to them all and came very near joining in the dancing. 
Ah, the dance of our peasants, apparently innocent, but, in 
reality, clever as the Italian dances, is a real Parisian cancan, 
and a very seditious cancan, not to say anything more. They 
do not raise their legs as high as their heads, which, moreover, 
is a very ugly fashion; but the man and the woman turn, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 259 

very nice way of putting it; it is slang, and my journal is full 
of it. I beg you will believe that I am not vulgar through 
ignorance and innate vulgarity. I have adopted a way of 
writing, to make things concise and easily understood. 

Well, there was discontent in the air; I was angry, and in 
my voice were heard trembling notes, which presaged a storm. 

Paul does not know how to behave himself; and I can see 
that my mother was right, to be unhappy about him. 

Sunday, September 10 th (August 2 gth). — My Majesty (myself), 
my father, my brother, and my two cousins, came to Poltava 
to-day. 

I am pleased with myself; they yield to me, flatter me, and, 
above all, love me. My father, who, in the beginning, wished 
to dethrone me, now almost completely understands why I 
should be accorded sovereign honors, and, leaving out a cer- 
tain puerile asperity of his character, accords them to me. 

This dry man, unused to any family sentiment, shows me, 
at times, a paternal affection, which astonishes all those about 
him. Paul has, in consequence, conceived a double respect 
forme; and, as I am pleasant to everybody, everybody likes 
me. 

" You have changed so much, since I have seen you," said 
my father to-day. 

"How?" 

"Why — humph! — that is to say, if you could rid yourself 
of a certain insignificant brusqueness (which, besides, I have 
also), you would be perfection and a real treasure." 

That means — well, only those who know the man can 
appreciate all the words mean. 

And this evening, again, he put his arms about me, and, 
tenderly kissing me (an unheard-of thing, according to Paul), 
he said: 

" See, Michel — see, all — what a daughter I have! There is 
a girl who deserves to be loved!" 

" Do I not, papa? I am a treasure, Michel," I added, " and 



260 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. "" ! 

I promise to let you marry my daughter; think of the honor; 
she may, perhaps, be a princess of the blood royal." 

I write from Poltava. It has rained since early morning; 
and, when we were forced to climb that Satanic mountain, 
which was in about the middle of our journey, the horses 
almost refused to proceed. My father mounted upon the box, 
and the coachman descended and ran along in the mud, whip- 
ping the horses to set them galloping, and not give them time 
to think of the difficulty. The cracking of the whip; the cries 
of the footman, the coachman, and papa; the mute astonish- 
ment of Chocolate — all formed an exciting spectacle. It 
reminded me of the finish of a closely contested race. 

We reached the city at 8 o'clock, and drove straight to the 
prince's house. The prince, himself, left this morning at 5, 
to prepare his house for our reception. It is a small house, 
very simple on the outside, but charming within. Nothing is 
finished yet; but the carpets are down, and the lamps, mir- 
rors, beds, and a stock of wines have been purchased, and are 
in place. 

In all Russian houses, there is, next to the antechamber, a 
hall; the hall here is all white; then there is a charming, dark- 
red salon, and a sleeping-room for me, full of all pretty and 
necessary articles. At every step, I am confronted with del- 
icate attentions. Fancy! I found upon my dressing-table, 
powder and rouge! 

But arranging all this, occupied the time until 7 o'clock, and 
when 7 o'clock came, just before our arrival, they discovered that 
there was nothing to eat. When we reached the house, Michel 
pretended not to have expected us, fibbed very awkwardly, 
and, pitilessly laughed at by us, remained in a state of con- 
fusion during the dinner, which was brought from the club 
about 10 o'clock. Some beautiful silver goblets led me into 
temptation. I drank two glasses of wine, which flushed my 
face slightly, and singularly loosened my tongue, just enough 
to make me animated. Still, I have been gay all day. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 261 

My father's plans have gone astray; all those whom he 
wished me to meet are in the country. 

When Michel left us alone, we spoke of Gritz's folly. 

" How stupid he is!" I exclaimed. " Now, now, listen, 
father and brother, both of you. Did you really think, with 
my ideas, with all I have seen and read, that. I would marry 
Monsieur M — ?" 

" Humph!" said my father. " Yes, he is certainly stupid." 

And he looked at me, not knowing whether he ought to 
appear disdainful or to speak his real thoughts, which surely 
were: " M — is a desirable match — even for you." 

And now let us retire to the bed made by the % prince 
himself. 

" Le ha fatto il lettoT Amalia exclaimed, " Un principe! 
Dio! Lei e propio una regitta!" 

I was just now startled by piercing cries. It was Amalia 
who was screaming, because Paul had opened the window of 
the gallery and was looking at her as she took her bath. 
What a boy! Pacha and the prince have gone to sleep long 
ago. 

I have scarcely room for my writing materials; the table is 
so crowded with bottles, vials, powder-boxes, brushes, sachets, 
etc. 

Delighted over my success with my father, I write privately 
to myself : Those who do not love me are brutes, and those 
who love me badly are criminals! 

Tuesday, September 12th (August $ist). — A day at Poltava! 
It is marvelous. Not knowing what to do, my father took me 
on foot through the city, and we saw Peter the Great's column, 
which is in the middle of the gardens. 

Monday, at midnight, we left Poltava; and to-day, Tuesday, 
we are in Kharkoff. The journey was a pleasant one; we 
engaged a whole carriage. 

I was awakened near Kharkoff by a bouquet from Prince 
Michel, 



262 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Kharkoff is a large town lighted by gas. The hotel where 
we are is called the Grand Hotel and justifies its name. 
Kept by Andrieux, the house offers every comfort; moreover, 
it is here that the gilded youth of the district sup, breakfast, 
dine, get tipsy, and fraternize with the innkeeper, who, in spite 
of that, never forgets his position, which astonishes me. 
Queer manners they have here! 

I had my hair dressed by Louis, a French hairdresser. 

Then tea and spiced bread. 

Oh, yes, I visited a menagerie and the poor caged beasts 
made me sad. 

I met my Uncle Nicholas, the youngest of the family, who 
pretends to study medicine. My poor uncle and I long ago 
used to play with dolls together, and I used to beat him and 
box his ears. 

I kissed him, ready to burst into tears: " Between us, there 
must be no ceremony," I said, " Papa does not like you, but 
I love you with all my heart. I am still the same, only a 
little tailer, that is all. Dear Uncle Nicholas, I can not ask you 
to breakfast; I am not alone and there are all sorts of strange 
people here, but come and see me to-morrow, surely." 

I entered our private dining-room in a high state of excite- 
ment. 

" There is nothing to worry about," said my father. " You 
could have invited him if you wished to, but I should have 
found some good excuse to be absent." 

" Father, you are not kind to-day, and it is useless to speak 
of it any further. Enough!" 

My father was abashed before my dry bitterness, and no 
more was said. 

Thursday, September \\th {September 2d). — They were speak- 
ing of Pacha's departure, while he came and went changing the 
guns, for, like Nimrod, he is a mighty hunter before the Lord. 
My father asked him to remain; but he is so obstinate that 
when he has once said no, he would not change for the world. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 263 

I have named him, because of the freshness of his ideas, 
" The Innocent."* I can say, without ceremony, because I am 
sure of it, that " The Innocent" thinks everything in the world 
of me. 

I begged him to remain. 

" Don't ask me to do so, I implore you, for I can not grant 
your request." 

I insisted, but in vain. I should not have been sorry to have 
kept him, especially because I knew that it was well-nigh 
impossible. 

At the station, we were met by Lola, her mother, and Uncle 
Nicholas, who had come to see me off. 

There was an enormous crowd to see the departure of fifty- 
seven volunteers for Servia. I walked all about the station 
with Paul, or Lola, or Michel, or Pacha, in fact, with each in 
his turn. 

II Really, Pacha is very unkind," said Lola, when I told her 
of his obstinacy. 

Then, with an effort not to laugh, I approached "The Inno- 
cent" and made him a little speech, very dry and very offended, 
and then, as there were tears in his eyes and as I was long- 
ing to laugh, I retired in order not to spoil the effect I had 
produced. 

One could scarcely move about, and it was with great diffi- 
culty that we reached our car. 

The crowd amused me and I looked out of the window. 
They jostled and pushed each other with all sorts of cries. 
Suddenly, I was startled by hearing a chorus of boys' voices, 
purer and sweeter than a woman's. They were singing a 
church hymn, and it seemed like a choir of angels. 

They were the archbishop's singers, and they were chanting 
a prayer for the volunteers. Everyone uncovered, and the 
divine harmony, and the beautiful voices took away my breath. 
When they had finished, and I saw everybody waving their 

* V horn me vert. 



264 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

hats and their handkerchiefs, with my eyes shining with enthu- 
siasm and my breast filled with emotion, I could do nothing 
else than scream " Hurrah!" with the rest, and laugh and cry. 

The noise lasted for some time, and did not cease until the 
same choir intoned the Russian hymn, " Boje, zaria chrani" 
But the prayers for the Emperor seemed insignificant after the 
prayer for those who were going to die in defense of their 
brothers. 

And the Emperor allows the Turks to act like this! Heavens! 

The train started amidst frantic hurrahs. Then I turned 
and saw Michel laughing, and heard my father say Dourak ! 
instead of Hurrah ! 

"Papa! Michel! Is it possible? What are you made of?" 

"Won't you say good-bye to me?" asked Pacha, very red 
and awkward. 

The train was moving. 

" Au revoir, Pacha!" I said, holding out my hand, which he 
seized and kissed, without saying a word. 

Michel was jealous. I saw him looking at me for some 
time, then he threw his hat on the floor, and rose in a fury. I 
laughed. 

Here I am again in Poltava, that detestable city. Kharkoff 
I knew better, I passed a year there before I went to Vienna. 
I remembered all the streets and all the shops. This afternoon, 
at the station, I recognized the doctor who took care of grand- 
mamma, and I spoke to him. 

He was astonished to see me so tall, although Uncle 
Nicholas had already told him about me. I long to return to 
the South. " Knowest thou the land where the orange tree 
blooms?" Not Nice, but Italy. 

Friday, September i$tk {September 3d). — This morning Paul 
brought me little Etienne, Uncle Alexander's son. I did not 
recognize him at first. I paid no attention to the more or less 
pleasure that the sight of a Babanine causes father, but I 
devoted myself to the pretty little boy. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 265 

At last father has taken me to call upon the notables of 
Poltava. 

First, we went to the prefect's. The prefect's wife is a 
woman of the world, and, really, very amiable. I liked the 
prefect also. He had a " committee " with him, but he came 
to the salon and told my father that there was no committee 
which could make him lose the opportunity of seeing so 
charming a young lady. 

The prefect's wife conducted us to the door herself, and we 
resumed the search for people that it was proper for me to 
meet. 

We went to the vice-governor's, to the directress of the 
Institute for Noble Young Ladies, and to Madame Volkovits- 
ky's (Kotchoubey's daughter); the latter is very well bred. 
Then I took a cab and went to see Uncle Alexander, who is 
here at the hotel with his wife and children. 

Ah, how good it is to be among one's own people! You 
fear neither criticism nor injustice. Perhaps my father's fam- 
ily seems to me cold and unpleasant, through contrast with 
ours, which is extraordinarily loving and united. 

Talking business, love, and scandal, I passed two hours very 
agreeably; but, at the end of this time, messages began to 
arrive from my father, and, as I replied that I was not ready 
to go yet, he came himself, and I tormented him for more than 
half an hour, loitering, seeking for pins, my handkerchief, etc. 

At last we left, and when I thought that he was a little 
calmed down, I said: 

"We have been very impolite." 

" Why?" 

" Because we have been to see everybody except Madame 
M — , who knows mamma and who knew me as a child." 

And then we had a long discussion, which ended in a refu- 
sal to go there. 

When the prefect asked me how long I was going to remain 
with my father, I said that I hoped to carry him back with me. 



266 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" Did you hear what the prefect said when you said that you 
wanted to carry me back with you?" asked the illustrious 
author of my days. 

"No, what?" 

" He said that, being marshal of the nobility, I would have 
to obtain permission from the minister." 

" Well, ask it at once, so that nothing need detain us here 
too long." 

"Very well." 

" Then you will go with me?" 

"Yes."" 

" Are you speaking seriously?" 

"Yes." 

It was past 8 o'clock, and the darkness of the carriage per- 
mitted me to say anything without my face betraying me. 

Saturday, September 16th {^\tJt). — I continue to be contented; 
the flatteries of the governor and his wife have increased my 
father's esteem for me. 

The effect that I produce flatters him, and, in fact, I am not 
angry myself when anyone says: " You know Bashkirtseffs 
daughter is a great beauty." (The poor imbeciles, they have 
never seen anything.) 

Gavronzi, Sunday, September 17th. — While waiting for my 
future celebrity, I went to a hunt in masculine attire, with a 
game-bag slung over my shoulders. We set out, my father, 
Paul, the prince, and I in a char-a-banc. 

Now, I can not find a word to describe the excursion, for I 
do not know the name of — well, in fact, everything appertain- 
ing to the chase. The brambles, the reeds, the shrubs, the 
trees were all so thick that we could scarcely make our way 
through them, the air was delightfully pure, there was no sun, 
and a light rain which delighted the hunters, who were warm. 
We walked, walked, walked. 

I made the tour of a small lake, my gun loaded and ready 
to fire, hoping every moment to see a duck rise; but nothing! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 267 

I was beginning to wonder if I should not fire at the lizards, 
which were crawling about my feet, or at Michel, who walked 
behind me, and who, I felt, had his eyes impudently fixed upon 
me in my masculine attire. 

I found the happy medium — that happy medium which is 
never found in France — and shot a crow that had perched on 
the top of an oak, suspecting nothing, all the more so as his 
attention was distracted by my father and Michel, who had 
thrown themselves on the ground in the middle of a clearing. 

I pulled out his tail-feathers and made myself an aigrette. 

The others did not fire once, they only walked. 

Paul killed a thrush, and that was the whole hunt. 

A mother, who thinks her child is dead, and dead by her 
own fault, who is not certain of its death, and who does not 
dare to inquire lest her fears may be confirmed — that mother 
suddenly finds again that child who has caused her so much 
anguish, who has made her doubt and suffer so much. Ah, 
that mother must be happy! It seems to me that that is 
almost what I experience in recovering my voice. 

After laughing heartily in the salon, I stopped a moment, 
and suddenly I could sing. 

I owe this to Doctor Walitzky's remedy. 

Tuesday, September igth. — I am wearied with hearing slight- 
ing allusions to my family, which I can not resent. I could 
have closed my father's mouth, if I had not been afraid to 
lose my means to an end. He is good to me, and I am will- 
ing to acknowledge it. How could one be otherwise to a 
bright, educated, agreeable, sweet, and good girl (for I am all 
that here, and he says it himself), who asks nothing of him, 
who has come to pay him a visit of courtesy, and who gratifies 
his vanity under all aspects? 

When I entered my room, I longed to throw myself on the 
floor and cry, but I restrained myself, and the feeling passed 
away. That is what I shall always do. I must not give peo- 
ple who are indifferent to me the power of making me suffer. 



268 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

When I suffer I am humiliated; it disgusts me to think that 
such or such an one has been able to make me suffer. 

Well, in spite of all, life is the best thing in the world. 

Friday, September 22a 1 . — I have certainly had enough of it. 
The country stuns me — paralyzes my intellect. I have told 
my father so, and, as if I had told him that I wished to marry 
a king, he began to show me how foolish it was, and to criti- 
cise my family again. I did not agree with what he said. (One 
may say certain things, but one does not care to hear them said.) 

I told him that the reflections on my family were all the 
result of Madame T — 's falsehoods. I have not yielded to 
my good aunt, and I have employed the best means to shake 
her influence. 

Oh, Rome! the Pincio, which rises up like an island from 
the plain, broken here and there by aqueducts; the Porta del 
Popolo; the obelisk; the churches of Cardinal Gastolo, which 
are on each side of the Corso; the Corso itself; the palace of the 
Venetian Republic — those narrow, sombre streets; those pal- 
aces blackened by centuries — the ruins of a little temple to 
Minerva, and finally the Coliseum! It seems to me as if I could 
see it all now. I close my eyes and I walk through the city, 
I visit the ruins, I see — I am not one of those who say: "Out 
of sight, out of mind." Scarcely has an object disappeared 
from my sight than it acquires a double value. I think of it in 
all its details, I admire it, I love it. 

I have traveled much and seen many cities, but two only 
have excited my enthusiasm to the highest pitch. 

The first was Baden-Baden, where I passed two summers 
when a child; I can still remember the lovely gardens. The 
other was Rome. Rome made a very different impression 
upon me; but stronger, if possible. 

It is the same way with Rome as it is with certain persons 
whom one does not like at first, but for whom love increases 
little by little. This is the way lasting affections are formed, 
which are very sweet without the anguish of passion. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 269 

I love Rome — nothing but Rome. 

And St. Peter's! St. Peter's, when a ray of light, penetrating 
through the roof, falls upon the floor and forms shadows and 
luminous tracks there as regular as the architecture of its col- 
umns and its altars — a ray of the sun, that, by the aid of 
shadows only, has erected in this temple of marble a temple of 
light. 

With my eyes closed, I transport myself to Rome, and it is 
night; and to-morrow will come the hippopotami f rom Poltava. 
I must be pretty. I will be so. 

The country has done me enormous good; my complexion 
has never been so fresh and transparent. 

Rome! and I shall not go to Rome! Why not? Because I 
don't wish to. If you knew what that resolution has cost me, 
you would pity me. Wait! my tears are falling. 

Sunday, September 24th, 1876. — It is beginning to be cold, 
and it was with a feeling of profound disgust that I was aroused 
?X 7 o'clock; at 8, I tried to gain a few minutes more, and at 
9, I was in the salon, my black-velvet cap on my head, and my 
habit caught up so as to show my embroidered boots. 

The hunters were all there: Kamenski, a Porthos in appear- 
ance; Volkovitski, a fury from Iphigenia in Tauris; Pavelka, 
a frightful lawyer; Salko, a wretched architect; Schwab^, the 
owner of seventeen hounds; Lioubowitch, a Tchinovnik, almost 
as enormous as Kamenski; a man whose name I do not know; 
my father; Michel, and Paul. 

They all examined the guns, discussing the cartridges, taking 
tea, and exchanging stupid and vulgar witticisms. I do not 
include in this my father and our own two young men. 

I rode with my father and our two guns; four carriages fol- 
lowed us closely. 

Do you know how a wolf-hunt is conducted in Russia? To 
begin with, excuse my blunders on the subject of sport, for I 
really know nothing about it. This is how it is arranged : 

The hunt is announced in the district a week ahead, through 



270 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the starosta or bailiff, so that he may collect the necessary: 
number of men; but, on account of a fair at Poltava, only 120 
came from there. Altogether, there were 200 men present, 
and nets were stretched over a line extending four to six miles. 
Prince Kotchoubey, who could not come himself, sent his nets. 

I shivered. My father placed us all, in no particular order, 
on each side of the path. He counted us and then made two 
parties — those with guns and those without. 

Among the peasants, about twenty had guns; to the rest, 
they distributed pikes — long poles with an iron fleur de lis in 
the end. Just as were in use by the ancient Gauls. These 
pikes are used in a cowardly way to kill such beasts as are 
caught in the net. 

The nets are stretched in such a way that the beasts are 
caught in them after having run rapidly along the path on each 
side of which the hunters are ambushed. 

It was time to begin. The Polish steward on horseback — 
wearing an oil-skin cap like a helmet and carrying a pike 
which, though he was on horseback, reached to the ground 
and above his head — galloped about and moved around without 
doing anything. 

I arranged my gun, adjusted my game-bag, which contained 
a pocket-handkerchief and my gloves, coughed — and was 
ready. 

Think of me alone in the midst of the forest, with a loaded 
and cocked gun in my hands, damp feet, and thoroughly cold. 
My steel heels sunk into the ground damped by yesterday's 
rain which increased the cold and made walking difficult. 

What think you that I did as soon as I was alone? Nothing 
extraordinary. I looked first for what was visible through the 
trees — sky, a gray and cold sky; then I looked around me. I 
saw tall trees already tinged by autumn. Finally, I noticed my 
father's cloak lying on the ground. I stretched myself on it 
and began to think. Just then I felt something warm beside 
me. I turned. Heavens! three animals, both tame and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 271 

caressing — our large black dog and the two little black dogs: 

: Jonk I. and Jonk II. 

At last I heard a shot — the signal — and then the cries of the 
peasants, though still far away. As they came nearer, my dream- 
iness disappeared, and when they were near enough to raise in 
me the feelings which the cries of a crowd always cause, even 
when they laugh, I rose, seized my gun, and listened. 
Their shouts came nearer, until I heard the blows with which 

ithey were striking the bushes to make the noise greater. 

I seemed every instant to hear the bushes breaking, for the 

) wolves prefer the thicker brush. 

They were shouting louder and louder, and when the first 
men appeared, my heart jumped. 1 believe that I trembled for 
a moment; but the men drove nothing before them — the nets 
were empty. After inspecting them, nothing was found but a 
poor hare, which the giant Kamenski killed with a kick — the 

-abominable brute! 

\ Compliments went round about the poor luck, and we went 

Ijgaily to the open plain, where, behind a heap of straw or hay, 
it was arranged to take a meal of salt meat and drink brandy. 
The peasants were feasted on roast sheep, pies, and brandy. 
This is natural in Russia, and seems to them magnificent.- 

Those honest animals! — shall I call them men? — examined 

with curiosity this creature, a little more woman than man, 

who carried a gun and smiled at them freely. My father 

discussed horses with them. I think he talked Servian politics. 

After resting, we took to the thick woods again; but since, 

instead of the wolf, we hunted hares, it was necessary to walk 

jcontinuously, following the twenty-nine dogs, and their keeper, 

: which Prince Kotchoubey sent yesterday. 

The sun came out, and I should have felt gay, if fatigue had 
not taken the place of the dampness. After two hours' walk- 
ing, we had not seen even a hare's tail. This made me impa- 
tient, and finding our carriage, I returned with my father to 
the paternal roof. 



272 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I took a perfumed bath, dressed myself, and went down to 
meet the others, who had brought in three hares. 

I was adorably pretty (that is to say, so far as I can be 
pretty); but it was useless; none of these monsters resemble a 
man. 

With the peasants I am talkative and familiar, with those 
who are my equals in education I am agreeable enough, I 
think; but what was I to do with these rustics? To avoid 
talking to them, I gambled and lost ioo francs to the giant. 

They started gambling again and I went to the library to 
write a letter to a horse-dealer at St. Petersburg. Of course 
the prince followed me, and after having asked to be allowed to 
kiss my hand, which I permitted without showing too much 
disgust, the little fellow looked at me, sighed, and asked my age. 

" Sixteen." 

" Well, when you are twenty-five, I will ask you to marry 
me." 

"That is charming!" I said. 

"And then you will repulse me as you have to-day." 

This brilliant day ended with a concert on the stairs. My 
voice — that is, one-half of it — delighted them, but I believe that 
they admire without understanding anything. 

Monday \ September 2$th. — My father took me- to the gallery 
to see a peasant wedding-party, which had come to salute us. 
The marriage took place yesterday. The husband wore the 
usual costume — black boots to the knees, large trousers of a 
dark color, and a swita (a sort of cloak, folded from the waist) 
of a natural maroon cloth, woven by the country women; an 
embroidered shirt, of which the front is visible, and a colored 
ribbon, instead of flowers, in the button-hole. 

His wife wore a skirt and jacket shaped like a man's, but of 
material of a quieter shade of color. Her head, instead of being 
dressed with flowers and ribbons, like the girls' heads, was 
wrapped up in a silk handkerchief, which hid her hair and 
forehead without covering her ears and neck. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 273 

They came into the room, followed by the best men and 
bridesmaids, and by those who had negotiated the marriage. 

Husband and wife knelt three times to my father. 

Wednesday, September 27//*. — I had a laughing conversation 
with my father, which gave me a chance to say anything. He 
was hurt by my last words the day before yesterday. 

He complains; says that he has led a life of folly; that he 
has simply amused himself, but that he finds something want- 
ing; that he is not happy. 

"With whom are you in love?" I asked, laughing at his 
sighs. 

" Do you wish to know?" 

Here he blushed so strongly that he put his arms up to hide 
his face. 

"Yes, tell me." 

"With mamma." 

His voice trembled so, that I had to laugh to hide my 
emotion. 

" I knew that you would not understand me," said he. 

" Excuse me; but this matrimonially romantic passion is so 
little like you." 

"Because you mistake me. But I swear it. I swear to you 
it is true. Before this portrait of my grandmother, before this 
crucifix, the blessed gift of my father," and he crossed him- 
self before the picture and the cross hanging above the bed. 

"Perhaps," he continued, "it is because I always imagine 
myself young as formerly, because I live in the memory of the 
past. When we were separated, I went almost mad. I walked 
as a pilgrim, to pray to the Virgin of Ahtirna; but they say 
that this Virgin brings misfortune, and it is true, for things 
became more and more entangled. And then, shall I tell you? 
You will laugh. When you lived at Kharkoff, I went there, 
alone, in disguise. I took a carriage, and watched your rooms. 
I stayed a day to see her pass, and then returned, without hav- 
ing been detected." 
18 



274 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" If that were true, it would be very affecting,'' I said. 

" Now, tell me. Since we are speaking of your mamma- 
has she — has she an aversion for me?" 

" Aversion! Why? Certainly not — none at all." 

" Because, sometimes one has insurmountable antipathies." 

" Not at all, I assure you." 

Then we talked it over, at length. 

I spoke of her, as of a saint, which she is, and has been to 
me, ever since I can remember anything. 

It was late; I was sleepy — at home I should have supped, 
written, and read. 

At 8 this morning, we were just starting for Poltava, when 
Mme. Helene K — , mother of Pacha, arrived. She is an 
amiable hunchback, a little affected. We took tea together, 
and then started. My father has been called there to preside. 

It was cold, and it rained every now and then. I took a 
walk, and then we went to a photographer. I posed as a 
peasant standing, sitting, and lying down — asleep. 

We met G — . 

" You have met my daughter?" asked my father. 

" Yes, Monsieur, I have met her." 

" You can not meet a finer girl, can you? And there is no 
finer, and never has been." 

" I beg your pardon, sir, there were such in the time of 
Olympus." 

" You pay compliments, I see, Monsieur G — ." 

The gentleman is rather plain, rather dark, rather respect- 
able, passably polite, an adventurer, a gambler, and fairly 
honorable. At Poltava he is looked on as most cultivated and 
polished. 

The first cold of the winter compelled me to put on my furs. 
Shut up, as they have been, they keep the odor they had in 
Rome — and ah! this odor! these furs! 

Did you ever notice how a perfume, a tune, a color can 
carry you to any place? To pass a winter in Paris? Oh, no! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRf SEFF. 275 

Thursday, September 2W1. — I weep from ennui. I want to 
go away. I am unhappy here. I lose my time, my life. I 
am miserable. I rust. I suffer. I am ill-tempered — that is 
the truth! 

This life is distressing to me. Oh, God! oh, Jesus! take me 
away from it! 

Friday, September 29th. — I was so desperate yesterday. It 
seemed to me that I was forever chained to Russia and it exas- 
perated me. I was ready to climb over the wall, and I wept 
bitterly. 

Pacha's mother annoys me. Why? Because she has said 
many things, by which I see in what high terms her son has 
spoken of me. Finally, when I begged her to let him come, 
she said, half-laughingly, half-seriously: 

"No! no! he must stay away; you are unhappy here, and, 
having nothing better to do, will torment him. He came back 
to me, quite crushed and stupefied/' 

To which I replied, with perfect candor: 

" I do not think that Pacha will be offended with my friendly 
pleasantry. If I laugh and tease him a little, it is because he 
is my near relation — almost my brother." 

She looked at me a long time, and said: 

" Do you know what is the height of folly?" 

"No." 

"To fall in love with Moussia." 

Instinctively connecting this phrase with many others, I 
blushed to my ears. 

Sunday, October 1st. — We have called on Prince Serge Kotch- 
oubey. 

My father dressed himself specially, so much so that he wore 
gloves of too light a color. 

I wore white, as at the races at Naples, only I had a hat cov- 
ered with black feathers of the classic fashionable Russian 
shape, which I do not like, but which was appropriate. 

The prince's country house is six miles from Gavronzi, it is 



276 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the famous Dikanka sung of by Pousiikine when he tells of 
the loves of Mazeppa and Marie Kotchoubey. 

The property was specially improved by Prince Victor 
Pavlovitch Kotchoubey, Grand Chancelor of the Empire, a 
remarkable statesman, father of the present prince. 

Dikanka, for the beauty of its garden, park, and buildings is 
the rival of the Borghese and Doria villas at Rome. Except- 
ing the inimitable antiquities, Dikanka is perhaps richer; it is 
almost a town. 

I do not speak of the peasant homes, only of the house itself 
and its surroundings. I am astonished to find such a residence 
in the middle of Little Russia. What a pity no one knows of 
its existence! There are many courts, stables, factories, 
machines, and work-shops, for the prince has a mania for build- 
ing, manufacturing, and ornamenting. But, once the door of 
the house is open, all resemblance to Italy vanishes. 

The hall is ridiculously small, and one only sees a fine noble- 
man's house; but none of the splendor, majesty, and divine art 
which ravish the soul in the Italian palaces. 

The prince is from fifty to fifty-five years old, a widower 
for the last ten years, I believe. He is the type of the Russian 
nobleman, one of those men of times gone by, whom the world 
begins to consider of another species than our own. 

His manners and conversation at first confused me, so stupid 
have I become; but after five minutes, I felt very contented. 

Offering his arm, he took me to the principal pictures and 
through the rooms. The dining-room is magnificent. I sat in 
the place of honor on the right, the prince and my father on 
the left. 

Farther away sat many persons who were not presented to 
me and who humbly took their places — the tenants of the 
Middle Ages. 

All was going ravishingly, when I felt ill, my head swam, 
I rose from the table; fortunately, the meal was over. 

I entered the Moorish room, sat down, and almost fainted. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 277 

They showed me the pictures and statuettes, the portrait of 
Prince Basile and his bloody shirt hanging in a closet of which 
the picture is the door. I was taken to see the horses, but 
could see nothing. Then we left. 

Saturday, October i\th. — I have received some gowns from 
Paris. I dressed and went out with Paul. 

Poltava is a more interesting town than people think. The 
first remarkable thing is the little church of Peter the Great; it 
is wooden, and to preserve it a brick casing has been built. 
Between this casing and the walls of the church, a man can 
pass. 

Right beside the church is a column, erected in the very 

place where, after having gained the battle of , June, 

1709, the Emperor deigned to rest himself, seated on a stone. 
The column is in bronze. 

I entered the old wooden church, knelt, and touched the 
floor three times with my forehead. It is said that by doing 
this the first time one enters any church, whatever one wishes 
will be brought about. 

Following up my curiosity-hunting, I went to see the great 
convent of Poltava. 

It is on top of the second hill. Poltava is on two hills. 

There is nothing remarkable there but the altar-stand, which 
is in wonderfully carved wood. 

It is there that my ancestor, the father of Grandpapa Baba- 
nine, is buried. I made a bow to his tomb. 

Tuesday, October i^th. — We played croquet. 

"Pacha, what would you do to any one who had offended, 
cruelly offended me?" 

" I would kill him/* he answered, simply. 

" You have fine words on your tongue, Pacha; but you are 
laughing." 

"And you?" 

They call me the devil, the hurricane, the demon, the storm. 
. . . I am all these since yesterday. 



278 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

When I became calmer, I propounded the most diverse views 
on love. 

My cousin has ideally broad thoughts, and Dante might have 
borrowed from him his divine love for Beatrice. 

"I shall no doubt be in love," said he, "but I shall never 
marry." 

"What is that, you innocent? We whip young people who 
talk like that." 

"Because — " he continued, " I should wish my love to last 
forever, at least in imagination preserving its divine purity 
and strength. Marriage extinguishes love just as it inspires it." 

I laughed. 

" Very good," said his mother, whilst the terrible orator 
blushed and shrank back confused by his own words. 

All this time I was looking in the mirror and cutting my 
hair, which was too long over the forehead. 

"Take this," I said to " The Innocent," throwing him a tuft 
of golden-red threads. " I give them to you as a souvenir." 

He not only took them, but his voice and glance trembled, 
and when I wanted to take them back, he looked at me strangely, 
like a child who has received a toy which he thinks a treasure. 

I gave my cousin " Corinne " to read, after this he left the 
house. 

Corinne and Lord Melvil were walking across the bridge of 
St. Angelo. " Crossing this bridge " says Lord Melvil, " on my 
return from the Capitol, I first dared think of you." There is 
nothing particular in this sentence — but, last night, it had a 
strange effect on me. Moreover, I feel it every time I open 
the book. 

Has anyone ever said anything like this to me? 

There is something magical in these words, simple as they 
seem. Is it then simplicity? Perhaps it is an association of 
ideas. 

Friday, October 20th. — By 8 in the gray of the morning, 
with the earth lightly powdered with snow, like Madame B — 's 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 279 

face, we were hunting. Michel brought his pack of grey- 
hounds. As soon as we were in the fields, I mounted my 
horse without taking off my cloak which I fastened round my 
waist with a belt. I had three dogs to lead. 

The frost, the snow, the horses, and the delicate heads of the 
hounds filled me with delight. I felt triumphant. 

Pacha, also riding, was very amiable, which suits him badly 
and disturbs me. However, no — his changeable temper is not to 
be disdained. 

" Pacha, there is a person who annoys me horribly (reassure 
yourself, it is not Aunt T — ) and I should like to exterminate 
this person in a polite way." 

"Good, use me!" 

" Truly?" 

"Try it!" 

" On your word of honor, you will not speak of it?" 

" On my word of honor." 

Owing to those few words, there is now a sort of alliance 
between me and " The Innocent." 

We have to speak softly, in English, whenever his mother 
is away. 

Pacha wished to continue his love-making. I gave him my 
two fingers to kiss, and lent him some poetry of Victor Hugo. 
I treat him like a brother, which he is. 

Monday, October 2$d. — Yesterday,jve packed ourselves in a 
coupe with six horses, and started for Poltava. 

The trip was pleasant. The tears that fell on leaving the 
paternal roof brought about general emotion, and Pacha 
exclaimed that he was madly in love. 

" I swear it is true," he cried; "but I will not say with whom!" 

" If you are not in love with me," I cried, "I detest your 

My feet were cold, he took off his cloak and wrapped them 
in it. 

" Pacha, swear to tell me the truth!" 

" I swear it." 



280 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" With whom are you in love?" 
"Why?" 

" It interests me; we are relations, I am curious and — and — 
it amuses me." 

" You see, it amuses you." 

" Of course, but do not take offense. I am interested in 
you, and you are a brave lad." 

" You see how you are laughing, and you will make fun of 
me afterward.'* 

" With whom are you in love?" 

" With you!" 

" Truly?" 

" On my honor. I never speak as they do in novels. Do 
you want me to fall on my knees and talk a lot of nonsense?" 

"My dear friend, you are imitating someone I know." 

"As you please, Moussia; but I am telling the truth." 

"But it is folly." 

" Possibly, but it pleases me. It is a hopeless love, just 
what I required. I wanted to suffer, to be tormented, and 
then, when she has gone away, I shall have something to 
dream of, something to regret. I shall feel myself a martyr, 
it will be happiness." 

" Innocent!" 

" Innocent? Why ' Innocent?' " 

" But we are brother and sister." 

"No. Cousins." - 

" It is the same thing." 

"Oh, no!" 

Then I began to tease my lover. Always the one I do not want! 

I set out with Paul, sending Pacha back to Gavronzi. At 
the station we met Count M — , and he politely gave me the 
assistance I required in the cars. 

They woke me at the third station, and as I passed in front 
of the count whom I believed asleep, I heard him say: " I 
kept awake specially to see you pass." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 281 

They were waiting for me at Tchermakovka, but I retired 
at once, thoroughly tired. 

* My uncles Etienne and Alexander, with their wives and chil- 
dren, came to see me in bed. 

I will return to my own friends. I am no sooner here than I 
feel better, there I shall be at rest. 

I have seen my nurse Martha. 

Tuesday \ October 2\th. — I had no childhood; but the house 
in which I grew up is dear to me and awakens my emotions. I 
know everybody and everything. Our servants, from father to 
son, growing old in our employ, look astonished to see me so 
grown, and I should enjoy some sweet memories, were not my 
mind poisoned by tormenting thoughts. 

They called me Mouche, Mouka, and as I could not aspirate 
the Russian h, I called myself with a French pronunciation, 
Moucha, which means martyrdom. A mournful coincidence. 

I dreamed of A — for the first time since I left Nice. 

Dominica and her daughter came in the evening, after 
receiving my letter written this morning. We stayed a long 
while in the dining-room which communicates with the sitting- 
room by an undraped arch. 

My Agrippina dress was a great success. I sang, walking 
up and down to master the timidity I always feel when I 
sing. 

Why should I write? What have I to tell? I must bore 
people terribly. Ah, have patience! 

Sextus V. was only a swine-herd, and Sextus V. became 
Pope. 

I will begin again. 

With Lola, there seemed to come a breath of Rome. We 
seemed to be returning from the opera or the Pincio. 

My grandfather's library gives a wide choice of rare and 
curious books. I selected some to read with Lola. 

Thursday, October 26th. — Blessed be the railroad! We are at 
Kharkoff, in the house of the famous host Andrieux; we came 



282 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

on horses thirty years old — grandpapa's horses. Our depart- 
ure was as brilliant as a display of fireworks; we were full of 
simple and honest fun. I can breathe freely among people 
who wish me only happiness. 

My anger has passed away, and again I dream of Pietro. 

At the theatre, I did not listen to the play, but dreamed; but 

then I am at an age when any subject offers food for dreams. 

Shall I go to Rome or shall I work in Paris? 

Russia, as circumstances make it for me, is heart-breaking. 

My father has telegraphed for me. 

Friday, October 27 th. — Returning from Tcherniakow to our 
old nest, I found a letter from my father; and all the evening, 
Uncle Alexander and his wife advised me to induce my father 
to take me to Rome. 

" You can do it," said Nadine; " succeed and it will be a 
true pleasure." 

I answered in monosyllables, for I had promised myself to 
speak of it to no one. 

In my room I have unhung all the images covered with 
gold and silver. I will place them in my oratory in the South. 
Sunday, October 29th (17th). — I have unhung the pictures as I 
did the images. They say one of them is a Veronese and one 
a Dolci; but I shall know at Nice. Once started, I wanted to 
carry off everything. Uncle Alexander seemed displeased; but 
the first step alone was difficult. Once started, I did what I 
pleased. 

Nadine is the protectress of the neighboring schools. She 
has, with wonderful energy, undertaken the work of civilizing 
our peasants. 

I went out this morning with Nadine, to see her school, and 
afterward tired myself in looking out old clothes and giving 
them away right and left. Crowds of women who had been 
in service or lived near the house came for them. I was obliged 
to give. 

Probably, I shall never see Tcherniakow again. I wan- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 283 

dered around from room to room for a long time, and it was 
very sweet to me. We laugh at people who find memories 
and charms in furniture and pictures; who bid them good- 
day, good-bye; who find friends in fragments of wood and 
stuffs, which, from having been of service and having been 
under one's eyes, enter into one's life and become a part of 
one's existence. 

Laugh on! The most refined sentiments are the most easily 
ridiculed. Where mockery reigns, the highest delicacy of 
sentiment is banished. 

Wednesday , November \st. — When Paul went out, I was alone 
with that honest and admirable creature — Pacha. 

"Do I still please you?" 

" Ah, Moussia, what do you wish me to say?" 

" Speak, simply. Why do you hide anything? Why not be 
simple and frank? I will not make fun of you. If I laugh it 
will be from nervousness and nothing else. Then I no longer 
please you?" 

"Why?" 

"Well, because — but I can not say." 

" It is impossible for me to understand you." 

" If I do not please you, you can say so; you can be candid 
enough for that, and I am quite indifferent. Come now, does 
my nose, or my eyes displease you?" 

" It is evident that you have never loved." 

" Why?" 

" Because, the moment you analyze the features — whether the 
nose is finer than the eyes, or the eyes than the mouth, that 
proves that love exists no longer." 

" That is quite true. Who told you that?" 

" No one." 

" Did Ulysses tell you?" 

" No," he replied, " I can not tell what charms me. I will 
tell you candidly: Your carriage, your manner, and, above all, 
your character." 



284 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

" Is it good?" 

" Yes, unless you are acting a part, which can not always be 
the case." 

" True again, and my face?" 

" It has beauties that may be called classic." 

" I know it. Anything else?" 

" Anything else? There are pretty women who pass by and 
one thinks no more of them; but there are faces which 
are both pretty and charming — and which leave a strong 
impression, an agreeable, charming emotion." 

" Perfect! and then?" 

" How you question me!" 

" I am taking advantage of a chance to know a little what 
people think of me. I shall not soon meet another person 
whom I can question like this without compromising myself. 
And how did you get the idea? Did it come on you suddenly, 
or little by little?" 

" Little by little." 

"Humph!" 

"That is the best way; it's the most solid. What we love 
in a day, we cease to love the next, while — " 

" You are poetical — this will last forever?" 

" Yes, forever!" 

Our talk lasted long and I began to have considerable 
respect for this man whose love is respectful as a religion, and 
who has never defiled it by a profane word or look. 

" Do you like talking of love?" I asked him, suddenly. 

" No; to speak of it carelessly is a profanation." 

" Still it is amusing. " 

" Amusing!" he cried. 

" Ah, Pacha, life is one long misery! Have I ever been in 
love?" 

" Never," he answered. 

"Why do you think so?" 

" On account of your character, you can only love by 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 285 

caprice. To day, a man; to-morrow, a dress; the day after, 
a cat." 

"I am delighted when people think that of me. And you, 
my dear brother, have you ever been in love?'* 

" I have told you over and over again; you know it." 

" No, no, I do not speak of that, but before?" 

" Never." 

" That is strange. At times I think I am wrong and have 
taken you for what you are not." 

We spoke of other things and I went to my room. What a 
man! No, I will not think too well of him, the disillusion would 
be too disagreeable. He told me just now he was going to be 
a soldier. 

" To win glory, I tell you frankly." 

This phrase, spoken from the bottom of his heart, half 
timid, half brave, caused me intense pleasure. I flatter myself, 
probably, but it seems to me that ambition was once foreign 
to him. I believe I can recall the strange effect which 
ambitious words had on him, and one day, while I spoke of 
ambition while painting, this half-grown man rose suddenly 
and paced the room, saying: "I must do some great thing! 
I must do something!" 

Thursday, November 2d. — My father teases me about every- 
thing. A hundred times I make up my mind to give every- 
thing up; but I restrain myself, which causes me unspeakable 
pain. 

Endless trouble was necessary to bring him to Poltava 
to-night. At the assembly of the nobility there was to be a 
concert with a piano quartet. I wished to go, to show my- 
self, and I met with nothing but objections. 

It is not enough that he has not procured the least pleasure 
for me, that he has driven away those who were possibly 
my equals, that he has been deaf to my insinuations and even 
to my requests about a wretched amateur performance! That 
is not enough! Now, after three months* coaxing and kind- 



286 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ness, three months' display of wit and amiability, I get— a 
strong objection to my going to this miserable concert! That 
is not all. I was able to arrange to go, but then came a dis- 
pute on the choice of my dress. He wanted me to wear a 
woolen dress — a walking dress. How small, how unworthy of 
intelligent beings! 

I did not absolutely need my father, I had Nadine and 
Uncle Alexander, Paul and Pacha; but I made him go from 
caprice, and much to my discomfort. 

My father thought me too fine and made more trouble. 
He feared that I should appear too different from the ladies 
of Poltava, and begged me this time to dress differently — he 
who had wished me to dress brilliantly at Kharkoff. The 
result was the destruction of a pair of gloves, furious eyes, an 
abominable temper, and — no change in my dress. We arrived 
when the concert was half over. I entered on my father's 
arm, upright and with the air of a woman sure of admiration. 
Nadine, Paul, and Pacha followed. I passed Madame Abaga 
without bowing, and we sat in the first seats beside her. 

I called on Mademoiselle Dietrich, who, when she became 
Madame Abaga, did not return my call. I assumed an insolent 
assurance and did not notice her in spite of her glances. We 
were at once surrounded, and the idlers of the club, which is 
in the same building, came in to look on. 

The concert was soon over, and we left, accompanied by 
several men on horseback. 

" Did you bow to Madame Abaga?" my father asked me 
several times. 

"No." 

Thereupon I made quite a speech, advising him to despise 
others less and to examine himself more. I stung him to the 
quick, so much so that he returned to the club, but came back 
to tell me that Madame Abaga referred to all the servants in 
the hotel, declaring that she had returned my call, with her 
niece, the very next day. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 287 

* My father was in good spirits. He had been much compli- 
mented about me. 

Saturday, November ^tk (October 23d). — I ought to have 
known that my father would seize any opportunity, great or 
small, to revenge himself on his wife. I had it vaguely in 
my mind, but I believed in the kindness of God. Mamma 'is 
not at fault; it is impossible to live with such a man. He 
has betrayed himself suddenly. I am now in a position to 
judge. 

It has been snowing since the morning; the earth is white 
and the trees are covered with frost which produces deliciously 
vague coloring toward evening. It makes me long to sink 
into the grayish fog of the forest — it seems to be of another 
world. 

But the pleasant rocking of the carriage, the delicious scent 
of the first snow, the indistinct light of evening, all these 
calming influences did not avail to diminish my indignation 
when I thought of A — , a memory which tracks me like a wild 
beast and allows me no tranquil moment. 

In the country, we were scarcely in the drawing-room.when 
my father began to make home thrusts, and, seeing that I 
remained silent, exclaimed: 

" Your mother declares that I shall end my life in the country 
with her! Never!" 

To reply would have meant leaving the house at once. 
Another sacrifice! I thought, and at least I shall have done 
everything possible. I can never blame myself. I remained 
sitting, and did not utter a word; but for a long time I shall 
recall that minute. My blood ceased to circulate and my heart 
stopped beating a moment, only to palpitate afterward like a 
dying bird. 

I took my place at table, still silent and deliberate. My 
father recognized his error and began to find fault with every- 
thing, and to scold the servants excessively to make an excuse 
for being angry afterward. 



288 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Suddenly, he took a seat on the arm of my chair, and threw 
his arms around me. I freed myself at once. 

" Oh, no," I said in a firm voice, which this time had lost all 
accent of fear. " I will not remain with you." 

" Yes, oh yes you must." 

And he tried to turn the matter into ridicule. 

" It is I who should be angry," said he. 

" Therefore, I do not allow myself to become so." 

Tuesday, November "]th. — I have broken my mirror. Some 
death or great misfortune is to happen. This superstition 
freezes me, and I am still more frozen when I look out of the 
window. All is white under a pearly-gray sky. It is long 
since I have seen such a picture. 

Paul, with the natural desire of youth to show new things to 
new people, prepared a little sleigh and triumphantly took me 
for a drive. 

This sleigh has no right to the name; it is simply some 
miserable boughs nailed together and covered with hay and a 
carpet. The horse, harnessed too close, threw the snow in our 
faces and sleeves, in my shoes and in my eyes. An icy dust 
covered the triple — lace on my head and froze in the folds. 

" You told me to go abroad at the same time as you," said 
Pacha, suddenly. 

" I did, but not from caprice. You could do me a favor in 
coming, and you will not come. You do nothing for me; for 
whom will you do something?" 

" Ah, you know well why I can not come!" 

"Why?" 

" You know. It is because in traveling with yon, I should 
continue to see you, and that causes me intense suffering." 

" Why that?" 

" Because I love you." 

" But, in coming, you could be of such use to me." 

" I? Useful to you?" 

"Yes." 



1 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 289 

" No; I can not come. I will look after you from afar. If 
you could only know," said he, in a low and touching tone, 
" if you could only know how I suffer sometimes! One must 
have my moral strength to appear always calm and the same." 

" You will forget me," 

" Never!" 

" But then?" 

My voice had lost all tinge of raillery. I was touched. 

"Poor fellow!" 

I stopped before saying more, feeling that my pity was an 
insult. 

Why is it so delightful to hear the confession of sufferings 

which you, yourself, have caused? The more unhappy one is 

for love of you, the more happy you are. 

"Come with us; my father does not wish to take Paul; come!" 
u !_» 

"You can not — we know it. I will not urge you." 

I took an inquisitorial air like a person about to be amused 
at the confession of some folly. 

"Then I have the honor to be your first love? Charming! 
I don't believe it!" 

" Why? Because my voice does not tremble, and tears do 
not come into my eyes. I have a will of iron, that is all." 

"And I, who wished to give you something, I — " 

"What?" 

I showed him a little image of the Virgin suspended at my 
neck by a white ribbon. 

"Give it to me." 

"You don't deserve it." 

"Ah, Moussia," he said, sighing, "I assure you that I do 
deserve it. What I feel is the attachment of a dog, a devotion 
without bounds." 

"Approach, young man, and I will give you my blessing." 

"Your blessing?" 

" My real one. I have made you speak in this way, because 

19 



290 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I wanted to know the feelings of those who are in love. For, 
suppose that I should fall in love some day, it w T ould be well 
for me to be able to recognize the symptoms." 

" Give me that image," said " The Innocent," who had never 
taken his eyes off it. 

He knelt down upon the chair, on the back of which I was 
leaning, and tried to take the image, but I stopped him. 

" No, no! around the neck." 

And I passed it around his neck, still warm as it was from 
contact with my flesh. 

"Oh!" he exclaimed. " Thank you for that! Thank you!" 
and he kissed my hand of his own accord, for the first time. 

Wednesday y November Zth. — There is an ar chine of snow 
upon the ground, but the weather is clear and fine. We again 
went sleighing but in a larger sleigh, which was a mistake, for 
the snow is not firm enough to support the heavy iron runners. 

Paul drove, and taking advantage of a moment when Pacha 
was not firmly seated, he lashed the horses into a run, spatter- 
ing us with snow, and making Pacha yell, and my venerated 
person laugh. He drove us through such roads and into such 
masses of snow that we could do nothing but beg for mercy 
and laugh. Sleigh-riding, however seriously undertaken, 
always seems like a child's game. 

Paul was on my right, and Pacha on my left; I made him 
put his arm behind me, so that his arm, his body, and Paul's, 
formed a comfortable arm-chair. 

The cold frightened me less than before. I had on only my 
fur cloak and cap, and that rendered my movements freer and 
also my words. 

In the evening, I sat down at the piano and played " The 
Reading of the Letter of Venus," a charming air from "La 
Belle Helene." 

" La Belle Helene " is really a delightful opera. Offenbach, 
when he composed it, was at the beginning of his career, and 
had not yet debased his genius by writing trivial operettas. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 291 

I played a long time — I don't know what, something slow, 
passionate, and tender as Mendelssohn's " Songs Without 
Words/' when well rendered, alone can be. 

I drank four cups of tea, while we discussed music. 

"It has a great influence over me," said Pacha, " I feel 
very strange. It produces upon me a sentimental effect, and 
as I listen, I could say what I would not dare to say other- 
wise." 

" Music is a traitress, Pacha; beware of her, she makes you 
do many things you would not do, if your head were cool 
She seizes hold of you, twines herself around you, makes you 
lose your senses — and then it is terrible." 

I spoke of Rome and the clairvoyant, Alexis. 

Pacha listened and sighed in his corner; and when he 
approached the light, the expression of his face told me, more 
than all the words in the world, what the poor fellow was 
suffering. 

{Notice my ferocious vanity, my eagerness to note the details of 
the ravages of which I am the cause. I am a vulgar coquette; or 
— no — shiiply a woman?) 

"We are melancholy this evening," I said, gently. 

"Yes," he said, with an effort, "you played, and I — I don't 
know — I have a sort of fever, I think." 

" Go and sleep, my friend; I am going upstairs. But first 
help me to carry my books." 

Thursday, November gth. — My stay will, at least, have been 
of use to me in giving me a knowledge of the splendid liter- 
ature of my country. But of what do these poets and writers 
speak? The South! 

And first must be mentioned Gogol, our humoristic star. 
His description of Rome made me weep and sigh; but one 
can have no idea of him, without reading him. 

He will be translated some day. And those who have had 
the happiness of seeing Rome, will understand my emotion. 

Oh! when shall I leave this country, so gray, so cold, so 



292 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

arid, even in summer, and in the bright sunlight? The 
foliage is shabby, and the sky is less blue than — down below. 

Friday, November iot/1. — I have just been reading over my 
journal, and I am disgusted with it — anxious, discouraged. 

Rome! I can say nothing else. 

I have sat five minutes with my pen in my hand, and I do 
not know what to say, my heart is so full. But the time is 
approaching, and I shall see A — again. To see A — again, 
frightens me. And yet, I think that I do not love him; I am 
even sure of it. But the memory of it all — my sorrow, my 
uneasiness as to the future, the fear of an affront! A — ! How T 
often that name has been written by my pen, and how I hate it! 

You think that I wish to die! Idiots that you are! I adofe 
life, such as it is; and I bless the sorrows, the anguish, the 
tears which God sends me, and I am happy! 

In fact, I have dwelt so much on the idea of being unhappy, 
that when I am shut up in my own room, away from the world 
and men, I say to myself, that perhaps I am not so much to be 
pitied, after all. 

Why weep, then? 

Saturday, November nth. — This morning, at 8 o'clock, I left 
Gavronzi, and not without a slight feeling of — regret? No; but 
something springing from the dislike we always feel at leaving 
a place to which we have become accustomed. 

All the servants came out into the court. I gave them all 
some money, and to the housekeeper, a gold bracelet. 

The snow was melting; but there was enough of it left to 
blow in our faces during the journey, and in spite of my wish 
to keep my face uncovered, so as to make my philosophical 
observations like Monsieur Prudhomme, I was forced, by the 
inexorable wind, to muffle myself up completely. 

I went straight to the house of my Uncle Alexander, whose 
name I saw upon the plate, and he told me the following anec- 
dote: 

A gentleman was traveling with an officer, in the same 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 293 

railway carriage. They engaged in a desultory conversation 
upon the new law concerning horses. " Was it you, Monsieur, 
who was sent into our district?" asked the gentleman, of the 
officer. "Yes, Monsieur." "Then you have, doubtless, reg- 
istered the Isabella horses of our marshal, Bashkirtseff?' 
"Yes, Monsieur." And the officer described their faults and 
their good qualities. 

" Do you know Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff?" 

"No, Monsieur, I have not that honor. I have only seen 
her; but I know Monsieur Bashkirtseff. Mademoiselle Bash- 
kirtseff is a lovely girl; she is a real beauty; and her beauty has 
something independent, original, ingenuous about it. I saw 
her in a railway carriage, and my companions and I were posi- 
tively startled by her appearance." " That is all the more agree- 
able for me to hear," said the gentleman, "as I am her uncle." 
" And I, Monsieur, am named Soumorokoff. But your name?" 
" Babanine." "Enchanted." "Charmed," etc., etc. The 
count did not cease repeating that my place was in St. Peters- 
burg, and that it was outrageous to keep me at Poltava. 

Ah! my father! my father! 

"But, uncle," I said, "you have, probably, invented all this." 

" May I never see my wife and children again, and may the 
lightning strike me, if I have invented a single word!" 

My father was in a rage, to which I did not pay the slightest 
attention. 

Poltava, Wednesday, November i$th. — Sunday evening I left 
with my father, after having seen much of Prince Michel and 
the others, during my last two days in Russia. 

At the station, there was only my family with me, but many 
strangers stared curiously at our luggage. 

The journey to Vienna alone cost me nearly 500 roubles. I 
paid for it all myself. The horses came with us, under the 
charge of Chocolate and Kouzma, my father's valet. 

I wanted to take a different man, but Kouzma, devoured by 
a desire to journey, begged to go. 



294 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Chocolate will keep a sharp lookout, for Kouzma is a sort 
of absent-minded idiot, who would let the horses be stolen 
from him, and even his own clothes. 

He married a girl who had loved him for a long time, and 
after the ceremony, he fled to the garden and remained there 
two hours, weeping and complaining like a madman. He 
really is a little mad, I think, and his bewildered manner is 
very noticeable. 

My father was in a fume all the time. As for me, I walked 
up and down the platform as if I were at home. Pacha stood 
off at a distance and kept his eyes on me constantly. 

At the last moment it was discovered that there was a pack- 
age missing, then there arose a miniature tempest and there 
was a great running to and fro. Amalia tried to excuse her- 
self, and I reproached her with serving me badly. The public 
listened and was amused, which I observing, redoubled my 
eloquence, in the language of Dante. It especially amused 
me, because the train was waiting for us. There is one good 
thing in this wretched country; one is lord and master there. 

Uncle Alexander, Paul, and Pacha entered the carriage; but 
the third bell announced that we were about to start and they 
pressed around me. 

" Paul, Paul," exclaimed Pacha, "let me say good-bye to her, 
at least." 

" Let him come to me," I said. 

He kissed my hand, and I touched with my lips his cheek 
near the eye. This is the custom in Russia, but I never made 
a practice of it. 

They waited for the whistle, and it was not long before it 
blew. 

"Well?" said I. 

u I still have time," said Pacha. 

The train began to move slowly, and Pacha commenced to 
speak very quickly, but not knowing what he said. 

" A u revoir, a u revoir, jump!" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 295 

" Yes, adieu, au revoir" 

He leaped upon the platform, after having again kissed my 
hand — the kiss of a faithful and respectful dog. 

" Well, well!" called, my father, from within, for we were in 
the passage-way of the car. 

I came to him, but so afflicted by the sorrow of which I 
was the cause, that I immediately laid down and closed my 
eyes to be free to think. 

Poor Pacha! dear, noble boy, if I regret anything in Russia 
it is that heart of gold, that loyal character, that direct and 
manly spirit. 

Am I really sorry? Yes. As if it were possible to be 
insensible to the just pride of having such a friend! 

The night from Tuesday to Wednesday, I slept very well 
in a bed, as if I were in a hotel. 



I am in Vienna. Physically speaking, my journey was per- 
fect. I slept well, ate well, and was well. That is the chief 
thing, and possible only in Russia, where the railway carriages 
are heated and have dressing-rooms. 

My father was passably pleasant. We played cards and 
amused ourselves by criticising our fellow-travelers. But this 
evening he was disagreeable in his own peculiar way. 

He took a box at the opera, but refused to accompany me, 
unless we went in our traveling dresses. 

" You take advantage of my position," I said; "but I will 
not permit anyone to tyrannize over me. I shall not go. Good- 
night." 

And here I am in my own room. My position? Yes, I 
haven't a sou, for I have only drafts upon Paris, which will be 
of no use to me until I arrive there. 

Before abandoning my horses, I gave 500 roubles to Kouzma 
and that left me with only my drafts. I told this to my father 
who was offended, and took the most noble attitude, exclaim- 
ing that expense was nothing to him, and to spend for me was 



296 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

a mere trifle, in comparison with what he had been accustomed 
to spend all his life. 

This place really seems like Europe and civilization; the fine, 
lofty houses raise my spirits as high as their topmost story. 
The low structures of Poltava crushed me down. I do miss, 
however, the fine light we had in the railway carriages yes- 
terday. 

Saturday, November \%th. — We arrived in Paris this morning 
at s o'clock. 

We found a dispatch from mamma at the Grand Hotel, 
where we had rooms on the first floor. I took a bath and 
waited for mamma; but I was in such low spirits that nothing 
roused me. 

She arrived with Dina. Dina cheerful, tranquil, and con- 
tinuing her work of sister of charity, of guardian angel. 

You can imagine, probably, that I was never so embarrassed 
in my life. Papa and mamma together! I did not know what 
to do with myself. 

There was some little friction, but nothing remarkably dis- 
quieting. 

Mother, father, Dina, and I all went out. We dined together 
and went to the theatre. I drew back into the darkest corner 
of the box, and my eyes were so heavy with sleep that I saw 
scarcely anything. 

I slept with mamma, and instead of tender words, after so 
long a separation, there escaped from my lips only a 
torrent of complaints, which soon ceased, however, for I fell 
asleep. 

Monday, November 20th. — After dinner, we went to see 
"Paul and Virginia," the new opera by Victor Masse, which 
has been very highly praised. 

The Parisian boxes are instruments of torture; we were 
four in a box which cost 150 francs, and we could not move. 

An interval of one or two hours between dinner and the 
theatre; a large, fine box and an elegant, becoming gown. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 297 

Under those conditions I can appreciate and love music. But 
everything was precisely the opposite, which, however, did not 
prevent me from listening with all my ears to Engally, the 
Russian prima-donna, and from gazing with all my eyes at 
Capoul, the darling of the ladies. Certain of admiration, the 
fortunate artist took as many attitudes as a fencing master and 
uttered ear-splitting notes. 

It is already 2 o'clock in the morning. 

Mamma, who forgets everything to think only of my com- 
fort, had a long conversation with my father. 

But he answered with jests or with sentences which showed 
a revolting indifference. 

Finally, he said that he understood perfectly my conduct; 
that even mamma's enemies could see nothing to find fault in 
it, and that it would be proper for his daughter, who had now 
reached the age of sixteen, to have a father for a protector. 
So he promised to go to Rome as we proposed. 

If I could only believe it! 

Friday, November 25 th. — Until this evening, everything pro- 
gressed well enough; but, all at once, they began a very 
serious, calm, and frank conversation in regard to my future. 
Mamma expressed herself in all respects in the most admira- 
ble manner. 

Then, you should have seen my father. He half closed his 
eyes, he whistled; but, as for answering — oh, dear, no! 

There is a Russian dialogue which is characteristic of the 
nation and which can, at the same time, give an idea of my 
father's manner of dealing with a subject. 

Two peasants: 

First peasant. — We were walking together along the road. 

Second peasant. — Yes, we were. 

First peasant. — We found a coat. 

Second peasant. — We did. 

First peasant. — I gave it to you. 

Second peasant. — You did, 



298 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

First peasant. — You took it. 

Second peasant. — I did. 

First peasant. — Where is it? 

Second peasant. — Where is what? 

First peasant. — The coat. 

Second peasant. — What coat? 

First peasant.— -We were walking along the road. 

Second peasant. — Yes. 

First peasant. — We found a coat. 

Second peasant. — We did. 

First peasant. — I gave it to you. 

Second peasant. — You did. 

First peasant. — You took it. 

Second peasant. — I did. 

First peasant. — Where is it? 

Second peasant. — Where is what? 

First peasant. — The coat. 

Second peasant. — What coat? 

And so on, ad infinitum. But, as the subject possessed no 
element of drollery for me, I felt as if I should stifle, and 
something rose up in my throat which hurt me frightfully, 
especially as I would not permit myself to cry. 

I asked permission to return with Dina, leaving mamma and 
her husband at the Russian restaurant. 

For a whole hour I remained motionless, with my lips 
pressed tightly together and an oppression on my chest; knowing 
neither what I was thinking of nor what was going on 
around me. 

Then my father came to me, kissed my hair, my hands, and 
my face, with hypocritical murmurings, and said to me: 

" The day when you shall have real need of my aid or pro- 
tection, say a word to me and I will stretch out my hand." 

I gathered together such strength as remained to me, and, 
clearing my throat, I replied: 

" The day has come; where is your hand?" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 299 

." You have no need of me at present," he answered, hastily. 

" Yes, I have need of you." 

"No, no." 

And he tried to change the subject. 

" Do you think, father, that the day will come when I shall 
need money? On that day, I would become a singer or a 
music teacher; but I would never ask anything of you!'* 

He was not offended. He was too well satisfied to see that 
I was so unhappy that I had no strength to say or do any- 
thing more. 

Saturday, November 25th. — Mamma was so unwell that she 
could not think of going to Versailles. Our friends came for 
us. I was dressed in white, as usual, with a bonnet of black 
velvet, which made a charming combination with my blonde 
hair. It was raining. After we were seated in the train, a 
gentleman, decorated and still young, entered. 

" Permit me, my dear," said the baroness, " to present to you 
Monsieur J. de L — , one of the chiefs of the Napoleonic party." 

I bowed, while other introductions went on about me. 

The " deputies' train " recalled to me the trains which ran 
to the pigeon-shooting matches at Monaco; only, instead of 
guns, the gentlemen carried portfolios. 

The Messieurs de L — placed us in the front row, on the 
right, above the Bonapartists, so that we were exactly opposite 
the Republican benches. The hall, or at least the President's 
arm-chair, and the tribunal reminded me again of the pigeon- 
shooting; but Monsieur Grevy, instead of holding the string 
of the cages, tapped a bell, which did not prevent the Left 
from interrupting many times the excellent speech of the 
keeper of the seals, Monsieur Dufaure. He is an honest 
man, and he has struggled bravely and wisely against the infa- 
mies of the Republican dogs. 

November 26th. — My father has gone. For the first time in 
four months, I breathe freely. 

November 2&tk. — Mamma took me to see Doctor Fauvel, 



300 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

and he examined my throat with his new laryngoscope. He 
said that I was afflicted with catarrh, chronic laryngitis, etc. 
(which I do not doubt, considering the bad condition of my 
throat), and that to be cured I must have six weeks of ener- 
getic treatment. This means that we must pass the winter in 
Paris. Alas! 

My father is simply delightful! In the first place, he made 
me spend money while I was staying in his house; then, he 
did not pay for my journey, and, as he was ashamed, he sum- 
moned Uncle Alexander, embraced him, and assured him that 
he would return me my expenses. He need not have said it, 
he will never be asked for anything. Then he allowed 
Kouzma to accompany those wretched horses. I paid their 
transport and Kouzma's, and now mamma has just opened a 
letter from this man to father. 

" I await your orders, Monsieur, detained on the way. As 
for Chocolate, I have sent him back to Poltava, according to 
your orders." 

Without counting that my dear father compelled me to give 
500 roubles to Kouzma, which Kouzma is now spending. 

Upon my word, it was a fine present he made me! 

" You deprived your daughter of all society so that no one 
could make comments. You hid her because you did not wish 
people to see what she is, as you, yourself, never gave a sou for* 
her education," mamma said to him. And he answered with 
flat and revolting jests, without denying or explaining any- 
thing. 

Friday \ December 1st. — Yesterday, we left Paris. Mamma, 
with her thirty-six packages, reduced me to despair. Her 
cries, her alarms, and her boxes were so bourgeois. 

Well, let it pass! 

Nice, Saturday, December 2d. — My aunt, herself, brought 
me my coffee. I unpacked some trunks and became myself for 
the first time since my journey. In Russia, I needed the sun; 
in Paris, gowns. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 301 

Please observe the way I have to live. Packing, unpacking, 
trying on gowns, purchasing, traveling. And that is all there 
is of it! 

When I went down into the garden, I found Monsieur Peli- 
can with Doctor Broussais, Ivanoff, grandpapa's oculist, Gen- 
eral Wolf, General Bihovitz, and the Anitchkoffs. 

But I left them all to go and see my women of the Rue de 
France. 

What a reception! 

They told me of all the marriages, deaths, and births. 

I asked how business was. 

" Bad," they told me. 

"Ah!" I cried, " everything is bad since France has become 
a republic." 

And then I talked and talked. When they heard that I had 
seen the Chamber at Versailles, they drew back with great 
respect, and then pressed about me. Then, with arms akimbo, 
I made them a speech full of strong expressions and Nicene 
exclamations, and showed them the Republicans with their 
hands in the people's money-bags. " Like my hands in this 
rice!" and I suited the action to the word by plunging them 
into a sack of rice. 

After so long an absence, the skies of Nice transport me, 
and I feel light-hearted as I breathe the pure air and look at 
the transparent sky. 

The sea scarcely gilded by the sun half hidden behind 
clouds of soft, warm gray; the emerald verdure — how beauti- 
ful it all is and how good it is to live in this paradise! I 
started to walk down the Promenade, forgetting my uncovered 
head and the numerous passers-by. Then I returned for a 
hat, and took my aunt and Bihovitz. I went as far as the 
Pont du Midi, and returned overwhelmed with sadness. 

Well, really, my family have their good points. We played 
cards, we laughed, we took tea, and I was penetrated with a 
sense of comfort, to be in the midst of my own people and 



302 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

surrounded by my dear dogs — Victor, with his great black 
head; Pincio, white as snow; Bagatelle and Prater. 

All this was before my eyes, and at this moment I can see 
the old men playing their game, the dogs, the dining-room— 
oh, it oppresses me, stifles me! I would like to fly away from 
it all, but it seems to me as if I were bound down, as in a 
nightmare. I can not bear it!!! I was not made for this 
life, I can not bear it! 

For an instant I felt some satisfaction on speaking of serious 
things to the old men; but, after all, they are obscure old men. 
What good can they do me? 

I have such fear of remaining in Nice, that it is driving me 
almost crazy. It seems to me that this winter, too, will be lost 
and I shall do nothing. 

They deprive me of the means of working! 

General Bihovitz sent me a large basket of flowers, and 
to-night mamma watered them to keep them from fading. 
Well, these little nothings drive me wild; this affectation of 
the manners of the middle class makes me desperate! 

Ah, divine pity! Ah, I swear to you that I mean what I 
say! 

I returned from the pavilion through the enchanting moon- 
light, which silvered my roses and magnolias. 

The poor garden, which has given me only sad thoughts 
and atrocious vexation! 

I came up to my room with wet eyes, and sad, very sad. 

The memory of Rome makes me faint! But I do not wish 
to return there. We shall go to Paris. 

Oh, Rome! May I see thee once again or die here! I hold 
my breath and draw myself up as if I would stretch myself to 
Rome. 

Sunday, December $d, — My only amusements are the changes 
of the sky. Yesterday, it was clear, and the moon glittered like 
a pale sun; this evening, the sky is covered with dark clouds, 
broken here and there with patches as clear and bright as 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 303 

yesterday. I noticed this as I crossed the garden, on the way 
from the pavilion to my room. In Paris, we have not this air, 
this verdure, and the perfumed dew of this night. 

Thursday, December *]th. — The little domestic worries dis- 
courage me. I occupy myself with serious reading, and I see 
with despair that I know so little. Never, it seems to me, 
shall I know it all. I envy the withered, wrinkled, ugly 
savants, I am feverish to study, and there is no one to tell me 
how. 

Monday, December nth. — Every day I grow fonder and 
fonder of painting. I worked nearly all day, then I played a 
little, and it affected my head and my heart. I had to have a 
two hours' conversation with grandpapa upon the history of 
Russia, to bring me back to my normal condition. I detest 
being sensitive. In a young girl, it takes all pleasure away from 
a host of things. 

Grandpapa is a living encyclopedia. 

I know one person who loves me, understands me, pities 
me, who employs every hour in efforts to make me happier; 
someone who will do everything for me and will succeed; 
someone who will never betray me again — although that hap- 
pened once — and that person is myself. 

Let us expect nothing from men, for we will have only 
deceit and sorrow. 

But let us believe firmly in God and our own strength. And, 
faith! since we are ambitious, let us justify our ambition by 
doing something. 

Monday, December iSth. — Yesterday, I was awakened by a 
maid who brought me my father's card with these words writ- 
ten on it: " I am at the Hotel du Luxembourg with my sisters; 
if you can, come at once." 

After consultation with my mother and my aunt, at exactly i 
o'clock I responded to this invitation; but, before entering, I 
once more asked myself if it were proper. Before I could 
answer the question, Aunt Helene and my father came out to 



304 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the carriage, greeted me very affectionately, and took me up to 
their apartments. 

Aunt Helene and the princess spoke to me of the Cardinal, 
and advised me to go to Rome and capture his nephew and 
his money. 

" The poor little thing," I said; " he is below there." 

"Where?" 

"In Servia." 

"Why, no, he is in Rome." 

" Perhaps he has returned, for they are no longer fighting 
there. I dined, yesterday, with a Russian volunteer, who has 
just arrived from Servia." 

Then they spoke of Aunt Tutcheff, and I denounced her in 
glowing terms, threatening her with a suit for libel. 

When anyone attacks my mother, or my family, they can 
defend themselves! But let no one touch me, for as sure as I 
am a defenseless creature, whom it is cowardly to slander, I will 
bravely avenge myself! And for an excellent reason, too; 
because I am afraid of nothing. 

San Remo, Saturday, December 23d. — Shall I take my father 
away with me? He consents to go, for two days, but with 
mamma. While waiting for mamma, to whom I have tele- 
graphed to come, I passed a few hours at the Villa Rocca, with 
Princess Eristoff. My Aunt Romanoff, heroic creature, 
remained in tiresome solitude at the hotel. She, naturally, 
does not wish to mingle with the people I have to meet. But 
do you see the part she plays, to indulge my caprices? I 
adore her. 

Monday, December 2$th. — We left San Remo yesterday — my 
father, my mother, and myself. What were my thoughts during 
the journey? Charming reveries and cloudless fancies over- 
powered all other sentiments, and gave me, as usual, a life 
detached from human affairs. 

It was a very agreeable state, which was interrupted by the 
stopping of the train near the station of Albiasola, because of 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 305 

a landslide. We had to get out, seize our luggage, and walk 
some little distance to take another train. The scene by the 
flickering light of the torches, against the black sky, was 
picturesque. 

The accident caused us to enter into conversation with our 
traveling companions, one of whom was an officer in the 
army. 

They helped us with our bags, during the difficult walk. The 
officer was quite intelligent and well read, and to his astonish- 
ment, I entered into a lengthy and serious political discussion 
with him. 

As soon as it was day-light, I took the seat next the window, 
in order not to lose for a single instant the sight of the country 
about Rome. Why do I not know how to express all the beau- 
tiful things I thought, and that so many others have said so 
many times and in such a charming way? 

I was entirely occupied in recognizing the various familiar 
places. The engine was already under the glass roof of the 
station, while I was still seeking for a sight of Saint John of 
Latran. 

The Spanish ambassadress, who had come to meet some 
friends, was at the station. I turned my head away when she 
recognized me. I was ashamed to come to Rome; it seemed 
to me that I would be regarded as an intruder. 

We went to the same old hotel, and had the same apart- 
ment. I mounted the stairs, and leaned against the balus- 
trade in the same place where I stood that evening. I am 
now occupying the red room, and — will you believe it? — think- 
ing of Pietro. 

Wednesday, December 27th. — Mamma was speaking of Rossi, 
when that amiable man came ambling into the room. 

"Well," he said, after the first greetings, "that poor Pietro 
-A — has lost his uncle." 

" Yes, poor fellow. Did he inherit anything?" 

" Only some silver plate." 
20 



306 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Then everybody talked at once. After which, with com- 
mendable frankness, I asked Rossi what people had said of 
me. We spoke Italian. 

" You understand/' I added, "that people do not know us, 
and they might very easily take me for one of those foreigners 
who come to Rome in search of a husband.'' 

We talked quite a long time, and I believe that I am con- 
vinced that the public attached no importance to the matter. 

" No one thought of him as a match for you," said Rossi; 
" he is a poor fellow who has neither fortune nor position. 
In the beginning they may have thought — But, at all events, 
you have given him a shock, and, perhaps, he will now reform." 

"But he is past redemption." 

"Oh, no; poor fellow, he suffers much." 



i8 77 . 



Nice, Wednesday, January 17th. — When, then, shall I know 
what this love is that people talk so much about? 

I could have loved A — ; but now I despise him. I loved 
the Duke of H — madly, when I was a child — a love due 
entirely to the fortune, the name, and the extravagances of the 
duke, and to an imagination which knew no bounds. 

Tuesday, January 23d. — Last night, I had an attack of despair 
which started me moaning and which made me throw the 
dining-room clock into the sea. Dina ran after me, suspecting 
some terrible design on my part, but it was only the clock. 
It was made of bronze, with a " Virginia-less Paul," in a very 
pretty hat and with a fishing-rod in his hand. Dina Came 
into my room and seemed very much amused over the episode 
of the clock. I laughed, too. 

Poor clock. 

The Princess Souvaroff has come to make us a visit. 

Thursday, February 1st. — The ladies were disposed to go to 
Monaco and enjoy themselves by losing a few miserable 
hundreds of francs. I brought them back to reason by one 
of my most bitter discou^es, and we went," mamma and I, to 
take an airing and then to call on the Countess of Ballore, who 
is so pleasant and whom we have neglected in the most ill-bred 
manner. We saw Diaz de Loria, the incomparable singer. 

I went to the The&tre-Frangaise, where Agar of the Comedie- 
Frangaise was giving a performance. I heard " Zes Horaces." 
The name of Rome resounded twenty times in my ears in a 
superb and sublime fashion. 

On my return, I read Livy. The heroes, the folds of the 
togas, the Capitol, the dome, the masked ball, the Pincio! 

(307) 



308 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

Oh, Rome! 

Rome, Thursday, February &th. — I went to sleep at Vinti- 
mille, and only awoke, morally and physically, at Rome. 

Against my will I am obliged to remain until evening, for 
the train does not leave for Naples until 10 o'clock. A whole 
day at Rome! 



I left Rome, went to sleep, and I am now in Naples. I did 
not sleep so soundly, however, but that I heard an ill-natured 
gentleman complain to the conductor of Prater's presence 
in the carriage. The gallant conductor took the part of our 
dog. 

But here is Naples. Are you like me? When I approach 
a great and beautiful city, I grow restless and my heart 
beats, and I feel as if I should like to own the whole city. 

It took us more than an hour to reach the Hotel du Louvre. 
There was a blockade in the street, yells and confusion. 

The women here have enormous heads; they look like the 
women that are exhibited in the menageries with serpents, 
tigers, etc. 

In Rome, I love only what is old. In Naples, there is nothing 
pretty that is not new. 

Sunday, February nth. — To understand our position in the 
midst of the Toledo, you must know that this is the day on 
which they throw coriandoli (confetti with chalk or flour). 
Whoever has not seen it, can not -imagine the scene — the 
thousands of hands at the end of thin, dark arms, the rags, 
the superb cars, the feathers, and 'the gilding; but especially 
the hands, the fingers of which move with an agility that 
would drive mad with envy Liszt himself. In the midst of 
the shower of flour, and the cries of the howling multitude, 
we felt ourselves taken away by Altamura and almost carried 
to his balcony. There we found a number of ladies, who 
offered me refreshments, smiled at me, and were very pleasant. 
I went into a room which was half dark, and there, wrapped 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 309 

in my Bedouin mantle from head to feet, I began to shed tears, 
at the same time admiring the antique folds of my drapery. 
I was very sad, but it was a sadness which gave me pleasure. 
Can you understand, like me, what it is to be happy in our 
unhappiness? 

Naples, Monday, February 26th. — I continued my excursions 
to-day, and we visited San Martino, an old convent, and I have 
never seen anything more interesting. Museums usually chill 
one, but that of San Martino amuses and delights. The 
antique carriage of the Syndic and the gallery of Charles III. 
fascinated me; and the corridors with their mosaic floors and 
the ceilings with their grand mouldings. The church and the 
chapels are something marvelous, and they are of such mod- 
erate size that all the details can be admired. Polished 
marbles, precious stones, mosaics in every corner, above and 
below, on the ceiling as well as on the floor. I do not think 
that I saw many remarkable paintings — yes, those by Guido 
Reni and Spagnoletto. Then there were the patiently wrought 
works of Fra Buenaventura; the ancient porcelains of Capo di 
Monte; the portraits on silk and a picture on glass represent- 
ing the episode of Potiphar's wife. The court of white marble, 
with its sixty columns, is of rare beauty. 

Our guide told us that there were only five monks remaining 
in the monastery; three brothers and two laymen who lived 
somewhere upstairs in a neglected wing. 

We went up into a sort of tower, with two balconies sus- 
pended one above the other. It made me feel as if I were on 
the top of a precipice; but the view is wonderfully beautiful. 
You can see the mountains, the villas, the plains, and Naples, 
through a sort of blue mist, which is really only the effect of 
distance. 

"What is going on in Naples, to-day?" I asked, listening. 

" Nothing. It is only the usual noise of the Neapolitan 
people," replied the guide, with a smile. 

" Is it always so?" 



310 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"Always." 

There rose up above the roofs a clamor, a continual yelling 
like uninterrupted explosions of voices, of which one can form 
no idea in the city itself. It really gives you a sort of a shock, 
and the noise rising up with the blue mist makes you strangely 
conscious of the height at which you stand, and gives you the 
vertigo. 

The marble chapels delighted me. The country that possesses 
what Italy does is the richest country in the world. I compare 
Italy to the rest of the universe as a magnificent picture to a 
whitewashed wall. 

How did I dare to judge Naples last year? I hadn't even 
seen it. 

Saturday, March $d. — This evening I went to the church 
which is in the hotel itself; there is a great charm in indulg- 
ing in meditations upon love, when one is in a church. You 
see the priest, the images, the light of the candles shining 
through the obscurity and — I was transported to Rome!!! 
Divine ecstasy, celestial perfume, delicious transports, oh, to 
be able to describe it on paper!!! 

The sentiments I felt could only be expressed in song. 

The columns of St. Peter's, its marbles, its mosaics, the 
mysterious depth of the church, the overwhelming splendor of 
the majesty of art, antiquity, the Middle Ages, great men, 
monuments, it was all there. 

Saturday, March 31st. — What is the use of complaining? 
My tears will effect nothing. I am doomed to be unhappy. 
That always, and then artistic fame. And if I fail! Ah, 
have no fear, I will not live to rust somewhere in the practice 
of the domestic virtues. 

I do not care to speak of love, because I have done so with- 
out avail. I will no longer appeal to God to bless me, for I 
want to die. 

My God, Lord Jesus Christ, let me die! My life has been 
short, but the lesson learned has been a hard one. I want to 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 311 

die. I am as incoherent and as disordered as what I write, and 
I detest myself as I detest everything that is miserable. Let 
me die! My God! Let me die! I have had enough of it! 

Let me have a peaceful death! Let me die singing some 
beautiful air of Verdi's. No rebellious feeling rises within 
me as before, when I wished to live expressly that others might 
not rejoice and triumph. Now it is a matter of supreme 
indifference to me; I suffer too much. 

Sunday, April ist. — I am like the patient, untiring chemist 
who passes his nights before his retorts in order not to miss 
the expected and longed-for moment. It seems to me that it 
is going to happen every day, and I think and wait, and after 
all what do I know? I examine myself curiously and with 
eager eyes, and I ask myself anxiously if perhaps this may not 
be it. But I have formed such an opinion of it, that I have 
arrived at the conclusion that it does not exist, or that it has 
already happened, and that it was nothing so very wonderful 
after all. 

But, how about all my imaginings and the books and the 
poets? Would they have had the audacity to invent some- 
thing which does not exist in order to cover up natural 
vileness? No! for, in that case, we could not explain our 
preferences. 

Naples, Friday, April 6th.— The King (Victor Emmanuel) 
arrived yesterday, and this morning at 10 o'clock he came to 
pay a visit to the Prince of Prussia. At the moment of his 
arrival, I was standing on the stairs, and as he came face to 
face with me, I said: 

"Two words, Sire, I implore." 

"What do you wish?" 

" Absolutely nothing, Sire, except to be able to boast all my 
life that I have spoken to the kindest and the best King in the 
world." 

" You are too good, and I thank you very much." 

"That is absolutely all, Sire." 



312 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"I thank you; I do not know how to thank you; you are 
very good." 

And he squeezed my hand in both his own. In consequence 
of this, I shall keep my gloves on for a week. It is because I 
have my gloves on now that my writing looks so odd. I shall 
have very long nails in a week. 

What do you think of me? I was not very much frightened! 

In doing what I did, I took everything into account, except- 
ing myself. To anyone else, the adventure would have brought 
a host of charming things; to me, it brought only a mass of 
disagreeable things. 

Doenhoff came from the palace, where the prince had been 
to return the King's visit. The King's aid-de-camp said to 
him: " What a queer thing it was for that young girl to stop 
the King!" And the Prince of Prussia told the King that the 
young girls of Russia are devoted to the royal family, that 
they commit all sorts of follies for the Emperor, and that 
they are as pure as the angels of heaven. Thanks, sausage- 
maker! 

Doenhoff said a lot of things; in fact, he came to reas- 
sure us. 

After foolish agitation and terror, I am beginning to recover 
myself. I have never in my life been so frightened. In one 
hour I lived two years. How happy everybody who has never 
spoken to the King must be! 

All my family have gone out to walk. Humbert and the 
Princess Marguerite have arrived. Doenhoff is just opposite 
our windows, talking to the gentlemen in waiting on the King. 
(I have taken off my gloves.) 



When we returned from the races, we found a strange gen- 
tleman in the antechamber. I was about to ask who he was, 
when Rosalie ran up to me, and taking me aside, said: " Come 
quickly, but don't be excited." 

"Who is he?" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 313 



" He is one of the King's aids-de-camp, and this is the 
third time that he has been here; he comes from the King." 

I went up to the man, and in an instant we were all in the 
salon. He spoke Italian, and I answered him in that language 
with a facility which surprised me. 

" Mademoiselle," he began, " I come from the King, who 
has sent me as a special messenger to express to you the 
regret he feels that he may have caused you any unpleasant- 
ness yesterday. His Majesty has learned that you have been 
scolded by your mother, who, perhaps, thought that the 
King was annoyed. It is not so, however, the King was 
delighted, enchanted; he has spoken of it constantly, and this 
evening he called me and said: ' Go and say to that young 
lady that I thank her for the act of courtesy she showed me; 
tell her that her sweetness and her generous impulse have 
touched me greatly; that I thank her, her and all her family. 
Far from being angry I am enchanted, and say that to her 
mamma, sua mamma, tell her that I shall always remember it/ 
The King saw that your action sprang from your heart, and 
it is that which flattered him. The King knows that you have 
nothing to ask for from him, that you are foreigners, and that 
is the very thing that has touched him. He has spoken of 
it constantly, and he has sent me to make his excuses for any- 
thing you may have had to suffer." 

Mamma made Count Doenhoff believe that I had been shut 
up for twenty-four hours as a punishment for my escapade, and 
the rumor soon spread, especially as I remained behind the 
blinds of the balcony, while Dina went to walk with mamma. 

I had interrupted the aid-de-camp ten times, and finally I 
burst out in a perfect flow of words expressive of my grati- 
tude and delight. 

The King was too, too good to think of reassuring me. I 
was an idiot, who thought that I was in my own country and 
was seeing my Emperor, whom I had once spoken to. (That 
is true.) I should be in despair if the King had been in the 



314 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

least annoyed by what I had done. I had been terribly afraid 
that I had offended the King; perhaps I frightened him by 
my brusque manner — 

" His Majesty is never frightened when a bella ragazza is in 
question, and I repeat to you, in the name of the King — they 
are his words, I add nothing — that, far from being annoyed, he 
is enchanted, delighted, grateful. You have given him great 
pleasure. The King noticed you last year at Rome and at the 
carnival of Naples, and the King was very much displeased 
with Count Doenhoff, whose name he has made a note of, 
because he told you something and prevented you from seeing 
the King when he left." 

I must state here, that Doenhoff, in his alarm, locked the 
door, which I did not perceive, being too excited to dream of 
seeing the King again. 

" I have said all this in the name of His Majesty, repeating 
only his own words." 

" Well, Monsieur, repeat to him mine; say to the King that I 
am delighted and only too much honored, that his thoughtful- 
ness touches me to the highest degree, that I will never forget 
the King's goodness and exquisite delicacy, that I am too 
happy and too honored. Say to the King, that I acted like a 
goose, but since he is not too angry — " 

"Enchanted, Mademoiselle." 

" It wilt be my happiest memory. How is it possible not to 
adore the royal family when they are so good and so affable? 
I can understand thoroughly the love the people have for 
the King, Prince Humbert, and the Princess Marguerite." 
And finally, the gentleman asked mamma to give him her card 
that he might deliver it to the King. 

Now, I don't care what anyone says — quite the contrary. 
Blow, trumpets! 

From the moment that I knew that the King was not angry, 
I have been in heaven! 

They are saying in the hotel that he kissed my hand. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 315 

Doenhoff has come from the palace, where there was a 
dinner with 130 covers. The King spoke of me and repeated 
many times: "She is excessively pretty. ,, 

The King is a good judge, and his opinion has raised me 
wonderfully in the eyes of Doenhoff and everybody else. 

Tuesday, April 17th. — Every citizen must serve his time in 
the army; in the same way each person must serve his 
apprenticeship in love. I have done so, and I am free until 
I receive new orders. 

Remittuntur ei peccata multa quare dilexit multum. Dulciores 
sunt lacrymce orantium quam gaudia theatrorum. 

Augustin. 

Florence, Tuesday, May 8th. — Do you want to know the 
truth? Well, make a note of what I am going to say to you: 
I love no one, and I shall love only the person who will 
flatter my self-love — my vanity. 

When you know that you are loved, you act for the other 
and you are not ashamed ; on the contrary, you feel heroic. 

I know well that I shall ask nothing for myself, but for 
another I would undergo a hundred humiliations, for such 
humiliations are elevating. 

This simply proves that the finest deeds have their founda- 
tion in egoism. To ask anything for myself would be sub- 
lime, because it would cost me so much to do so; why, the 
very thought of it is horror! But to do anything for another 
gives you pleasure, and you have the air of being self- 
sacrificing, devoted, and charitable. 

You believe, yourself, in your merit for the time being. You 
ingenuously believe that you are charitable, unselfish, sublime! 

Friday, May nth. — Havel said that Gordigiani has been 
to see us, encouraged me, promised me an artistic future, found 
much good in my drawings, and was very anxious to paint my 
portrait? 

Florence, Saturday, May 12th, — My heart is broken at the 
idea of leaving Florence. 



316 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

To go to Nice! I prepare for it as if I were going to cross 
a desert. I would like to shave my head so as not to have the 
trouble of arranging my hair. 

Our trunks are packed, we are going! The ink dries upon my 
pen before I can think of a word to write, so great are my regrets. 

Nice, Wednesday, May 16th. — I have been running about 
all the morning trying to find a few trifles that I want for my 
dressing-room; but in this miserable place, you can not find 
anything. I went to a painter on glass, a tinsmith's, and I 
don't know where. 

The idea that my journal will not be interesting, the impos- 
sibility of giving it interest by arranging surprises, torments 
me. If I wrote only at intervals, I might perhaps do better, 
but these notes of every day will be read patiently only by 
some thinker, some great observer of human nature. Who- 
ever shall not have the patience to read all, will be able to 
read nothing and above all will understand nothing. 

I am happy in my pretty, soft nest in the midst of my 
garden of flowers. Nice does not exist, I am in my own 
country house. 

Nice, Wednesday, May 23d. — Oh, when I think that there is 
only one life and that each minute brings us nearer to death, 
it drives me mad!! 

I do not fear death, but life is so short that to waste it is 
infamous! 

Thursday, May 24///. — Two eyes are not enough, if one 
desires to accomplish anything. Reading and drawing fatigue 
me terribly, and in the evening, when I write these wretched 
lines, I am sleepy. 

Ah! what a happy time is youth! 

With what delight I shall some time remember the days 
devoted to study and art. If I could only give up a whole 
year to these occupations, I might achieve something; but a 
day here, a week there, means so little. Natures to whom 
God has given so much, use themselves up in doing nothing. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 317 

I try to calm myself with the thought that next winter I 
will go to work in earnest; but my seventeen years make me 
blush to the roots of my hair. Almost seventeen, and what 
have I accomplished? Nothing. The thought crushes me. 
For my consolation, I seek, among the names of celebrated 
people, for those who began late in life; but, seventeen years 
for a man is nothing, while a woman at seventeen should be as 
far advanced as a man at twenty-three. 

To go and live in Paris, in the North, after the beautiful 
sunlight, and the calm, clear nights! What can one desire, 
what can one care for, after Italy? Paris, the heart of the civ- 
ilized world, of intelligence, of wit, of fashion — of course 
people go there, remain there, and like it; in fact, one must 
go there for a multitude of things, to return with more pleas- 
ure to God's country, the country of the blessed — an enchanted, 
marvelous, divine country, of the supreme beauty and marvel- 
ous charm of which no words can convey any idea! 

People go to Italy and ridicule its mean little villages and its 
lazzaroni, and they sometimes do this with much wit, and often 
with a show of reason; but forget for an instant that you are 
clever and that it is very amusing to rail at everything, and 
you will be, like me, in an ecstasy, crying and laughing with 
admiration. 

I started in to say that it is a lovely moonlight night and 
that in Paris I shall not have this calm, this poetry, these 
divine delights of nature and heaven. 

Tuesday, May 29th. — The more I advance from youth to old 
age, the more indifferent do I become. Few things move me 
now, while everything moved me once. As I read over the 
record of my life and see how trifles made my blood boil, I 
recognize that I attached altogether too much importance to 
them. 

Trust and sensitiveness, which are to one's character what 
the bloom is to the peach, a're soon lost. 

I regret all the more the loss of this freshness of feeling, 



318 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

because it is never recovered. One is more peaceful without 
it, but less capable of enjoyment. Disappointments ought 
not to have come to me so early. If I had not had them, I 
should have become something supernatural; I feel it. 

I have just finished a book which has disgusted me with 
love. A charming princess in love with a painter! • Fie! I 
don't mean to insult painters by any stupid affectation; but, I 
don't know why, the story offends me. I have always had aris- 
tocratic ideas, and I believe in good blood in men as much as 
I do in horses. Often, always, indeed, in the early days, noble 
races became so in consequence of moral and physical educa- 
tion, the effects of which were transmitted from father to son; 
but what matters the cause? 

Wednesday, May $oth. — I have been turning over the leaves 
which contain the A — episode, and it is really surprising how 
well I reasoned. I am amazed and filled with admiration. I 
had forgotten all those true and just reflections, and I was 
somewhat uneasy lest anyone should believe that I once loved 
Count A — . Fortunately, no one can believe it, thanks to this 
dear journal. No, truly, I did not think that I had said so 
many truths, and, above all, thought them. It was a year 
ago and I was afraid that I had written nonsense; but, no, and 
I am very much pleased with myself. Still, I can not under- 
stand how I could have behaved so foolishly and reasoned so 
well. 

I must recall that no advice in the world would have pre- 
vented me from acting as I did. I needed experience. 

It gives me a disagreeable impression to feel that I am so 
worldly-wise; but it is a natural sequence, and, when I become 
accustomed to it, I shall rise again to that ideal purity, which 
lurks forever somewhere in the soul; and then, it will be still 
better, for I shall be calmer, prouder, and happier; because I 
shall know how to appreciate it, although now I am vexed as 
if I were judging another. 

The woman who writes this and the one I describe are two 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 319 

distinct beings. Why do all these tribulations come to me? I 
write them down, I analyze them, I copy my daily life; but to 
me, to me myself, the whole thing is a matter of perfect indif- 
ference. It is my pride, my self-love, my interests, my com- 
plexion, my eyes, which suffer, weep, enjoy; but /, I am only 
there to look on, to narrate and coldly discuss all these great 
troubles, as Gulliver must have regarded his Lilliputians. 

I have much more that I might say in explanation of myself, 
but let this suffice. 

Monday, June nth. — Last evening, while they were playing 
at cards, I made a rough sketch of them by the light of two 
flickering candles, and this morning I transferred the players 
to canvas. 

I was delighted to paint four seated persons, to make the 
position of the hands and the arms, and the expressions. I 
had never before done anything but heads, and it will delight 
me now to scatter these heads like flowers over the canvas. 

Paris, Saturday, July 7 th. — I think I can say with truth that 
I have recently become more sensible. I see things in a more 
natural light, and I have recovered from many of my illusions 
and many of my sorrows. 

One's own experience alone teaches true wisdom. 

Sunday, July i$tk. — I am so weary of life that I should like 
to die. It seems to me that nothing in the world can amuse 
or interest me. I hope nothing, I want nothing. Yes, I would 
like not to be ashamed of the condition to which I have sunk. 
To be able, in a word, to do nothing, to think of nothing, to 
live like a plant, without having any remorse. 

Captain B — passed the evening with us, and we talked 
together. I am disgusted enough with my conversational 
powers since I have read what Madame de Stael has said in 
regard to the imitation of French wit by foreigners. To 
believe her,one should hide one's head and never dare attempt 
to rival the sublime genius of the French. 

Reading drawing, music — nothing but ennui, ennui, ennui. 



320 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Outside of my occupations and my amusements, I need 
some real, living interest, and without it I am bored to death. 

I am not weary of life, because I have not married yet; no, 
you have too good an opinion of me to believe that. I am 
weary of it, because everything has gone wrong with me, and 
because — well, because I am weary of it. 

Paris kills me! It is a cafe, a well-kept hotel, a bazar. 
However, I must hope that with the winter, the opera, the 
Bois, and my studies, I shall grow to endure it. 

Tuesday, July iph. — I have passed all day in seeing real 
marvels of antique and artistic embroideries, and gowns that 
were chivalrous or bucolic poems. All sorts of splendors 
which gave me an idea of a luxury that I had never before even 
suspected. Ah, Italy! 

If I devote a month twice a year to my wardrobe, it is only 
that I may not worry myself about it the rest of the time. 
Dresses are so stupid when one is occupied with them for their 
own sake; but, with me, dresses lead to costumes and costumes 
to history. 

Wednesday, July i8t/i. — That one word, Italy, affects me as 
no word, no person has ever done. 

Oh, when shall I be there? 

I should be so angry if anyone thought that I wrote these 
Ohs and Ahs from affectation. 

I don't know why it is that I imagine that I am not believed; 
in spite of all my asseverations, I sometimes think so, and it is 
both disagreeable and stupid. 

You see, I want to make a change; I want to write very 
simply, and I fear that, when comparing my new style with my 
past exaggeration, people will not understand what I mean. 

Since Naples, that is, since my journey to Russia, I have 
tried to improve myself, and it seems to me that I have, to a 
certain extent, succeeded. 

I want to state things in a perfectly natural way, and if I 
add a few figures of speech, do not think it is for the purpose 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 321 

of fine writing. Oh, no! it is simply to unravel, and to 
express, as clearly as possible, the confusion of my ideas. 

It annoys me greatly not to be able to write anything 
pathetic! I would like so much to make others feel what I 
feel. I weep and I say that I weep. That is not what I want. 

I want to be able to tell it all in such a way that it will touch 
your hearts. 

That power will come, and other things with it, but it must 
not be sought for. 

Thursday, July 26th. — I have been drawing nearly all day; 
to rest my eyes, I played the mandolin, then drawing again, 
and then the piano. There is nothing in the world like art, in 
all its branches, from the beginning up to the moment of the 
greatest development. 

You forget everything to become absorbed in your work; 
you regard contours and shadows with respect, with tender- 
ness; you create, you feel yourself almost great. 

I am afraid of hurting my eyes, and I have not read in the 
evening for three days. Lately, everything looks blurred at so 
short a distance as from the carriage to the curbstone. 

It makes me uneasy. If, after losing my voice, I should be 
obliged to give up drawing and reading! But, in that case, I 
should not complain, because it would mean that all my 
troubles have been the fault of no one, but simply the will of 
God. 

Monday, July 30th. — It is said that many young girls write 
their impressions, and that stupid Vie Parisienne speaks of it 
in a very contemptuous manner. I hope that I am not one of 
those envious, ignorant, unsexed beings, reeking through all the 
pores with mystery and depravity. 

Fauvel has stopped my excursions to Enghien, and will, per- 
haps, send me to Germany, which would again turn everything 
upside down. Walitzky is a skillful doctor, and understands 
all diseases. I had hoped that he was mistaken in advising me 
to go to Soden, but Fauvel is of the same opinion. 
21 



322 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRf S£FF. 

Wednesday, August ist. — " Two sentiments are common to 
lofty and affectionate natures; extreme sensitiveness to the 
opinion of others, and extreme bitterness when that opinion is 
unjust*" 

Who was the adorable creature who wrote that? I have 
forgotten, but I have already quoted the lines, a year ago, 
and I beg you to think of them sometimes in thinking of me. 

Sunday, August $th. — When one is in need of bread, one 
really does not dare to speak of sweetmeats. So, at present, 
I am ashamed to speak of my artistic hopes. I no longer dare 
to say that to do better work I would like such or such arrange- 
ments, that I want to study in Italy. All this is very painful 
for me to say. 

Even if I should be granted all, I think I could no longer 
be so happy as I would have been once. 

Confidence once lost is never restored, and this truth, like 
everything that is irreparable, saddens me unspeakably. 

I am disappointed and sad, I notice nothing, nobody; my 
face is careworn, which takes away the trusting expression I 
once had, and makes me look ugly. I no longer have any- 
thing to say; my friends look at me with astonishment at first, 
and then go away. Then I try to be amusing, and I become 
queer, extravagant, impertinent, and stupid. 

Monday, August 6th. — Do you think that I am not uneasy 
about Russia? Where is the being unhappy enough, con- 
temptible enough, to forget his country when in danger? Do 
you think that the fable of the hare and the tortoise, when 
applied to Russia and Turkey, does not trouble me? Because 
I speak of this, that, and the other, does that prove that I am 
not uneasy, seriously uneasy about our war? 

Do you think that 100,000 slaughtered Russians would be 
lying dead, if my prayers could have saved them, my anxious 
thoughts defended them? 

Tuesday, August jt/i. — I have been stupefying myself at the 
Bon Marche, which pleases me as everything that is well 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 323 

managed does. We had guests to supper with us; they 
laughed and I laughed, but still — I am sad, despairing. 

And it is impossible!! Frightful words! Hideous, horrible 
words!! To die, my God, to die!!! To die!!!! .Without 
leaving anything behind me! To die like a dog! To die, as a 
hundred thousand women have died, with scarcely their names 
engraved upon their tombs! To die like — Fool, fool, who 
does not see what is God's will! God wishes me to renounce 
everything else and consecrate myself to art. In five years, I 
shall still be quite young, still beautiful, perhaps. But, sup- 
pose I become only a mediocre artist, as so many others have 
been? 

With society, that might answer; but to devote one's life to 
some special thing and not to succeed! 

In Paris, as everywhere else, there is a Russian colony. 

It is not these mean considerations that enrage me, but it is 
that, mean as they are, they make me desperate and prevent 
me from thinking of my greatness. 

What is life without society? What can one do when 
always alone? This thought makes me hate the whole world, 
my family, myself; it makes me blaspheme! To live! To 
live! Holy Mary, Mother of God, Lord Jesus Christ, my 
God, come to my aid! 

But, if I am to consecrate myself to the arts, I must go to 
Italy! Yes, to Rome. 

This is the granite wall against which I dash my head every 
moment. 

I will remain here. 

Sunday \ August 12th. — I have sketched the portrait of the 
chambermaid of the house, Antoinette. She has a charming 
face with large, sparkling, blue eyes, and a lovely, innocent 
expression. But — the sketch is always successful — to know 
how to finish the picture, one must have studied. 

Friday », August 17///. — I am convinced that I can not live 
away from Rome. In fact, my health is failing visibly, but it 



8 J I fOURN \ L OF m \ RIB BASHK IRT81 FF 

is beyond my power to do anything, I would give two years 

oi my life il I had never been in koine. 
Unfortunately, we only learn how to act, when there is no 

lonjjei any o( easi( >n for act ing, 

Painting drives me wildl Because, in my nature, there is 
•.mil which might be made toaccomplish marvels, and [am, 
as i. n as studying goes, more unfortunate than the first street 

hoy, iu whom talent is noticed ,\\)i\ who is sent tO school. 

However, I have this hope to console me: That posterity, 
enraged at having lost what I might have created, will cut ofl 
the he, ids of all my family, 

Do yOU think 1 1 1:1 1 I still desire to 00 into SOCIETY? No, 
no longer, I am soured and disappointed, and I desire to 

become an artist foi the same re.isonth.it malcontents become 
Republicans, 
1 thmk, after all, though, that I am slandering myself, 

Saturday, August 18///. When I read Homer, I compared 

my aunt when she w.is angry to Hecuba at the burning of 

Troy, 1 low ever st lipid one may be, or ashamed to eon I ess his 
admiration for the Classics, no one, it seems to me, (\\\\ escape 

from a certain adoration oi the ancients, Vou may say that it 
is repugnant to repeat always the same thing; you may say that 
you are afraid to appear to transcribe what you have read in 
profissionai admirers, or to say over again the words of your 
teacher, but the fact is, that, especially in Paris, one does not 

daie tO speak of these things, one really docs not dare. 

And yet, no modern drama, no novel, no sensational comedy 

l>\ Pumas or (icori'c Sand, ever left SO clear, deep, and real 

aw impression upon my mind as the description of the Siege 
oi Tro) 

It serins to me that 1 was present at those horrors, that 1 
heard the cues, was with Priam's family, with those unlort- 

u nates who hid themselves behind the altars oi their gods, 
where the sinister dames of the lire winch devoured their city 

came to seek them and caul their Sufferings, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 325 

And who can help a slight shudder in reading of the 
appearance of Creusa's ghost? 

But when I think of Hector, who had come below the ram- 
parts with such excellent intentions, flying before Achilles, 
and chased three times around the walls — I laugh! 

And the hero who passed a thong about the feet of his dead 
enemy and (dragged him this time about the same ramparts! I 
imagine a horrible street urchin, galloping on a stick for a 
horse, and with an enormous wooden sword at his side. 

I do not know, but it seems to me that in Rome alone can I 
satisfy my dreams of all things. 

In Rome, one is at the summit of the world. 

I have thrown aside in disgust the "Journal d'un Diplomate 
en Italie " — the French daintiness of style, the politeness, the 
commonplace expressions of admiration offend me, when 
applied to Rome. To me a Frenchman always has the air of 
dissecting things with a long instrument held delicately 
between his fingers, and with eye-glasses upon his nose. 

Rome ought to be, as a city, what I could imagine myself 
to be as a woman. Any expression that has been used 
before and in description of others, applied to us is a profana- 
tion. 

Sunday, August 19th. — I have been reading " Ariadne," by 
Ouida. The book has saddened me, and yet I almost envy 
the lot of Gioja. 

Gioja was brought up on a diet of " Homer and Virgil/' 
After her father's death, she went on foot to Rome. There, a 
terrible disappointment awaited her, for she had expected the 
Rome of Augustus. 

For two years she studied in the studio of Marix, the most 
celebrated sculptor of the time, and who unwittingly fell in 
love with her. But she thought of nothing but her art, until 
there appeared in her life Hilarion, a poet who made the 
whole world weep with his poems, . and who, himself, turned 
everything into ridicule; a millionaire, as beautiful as a god, 



326 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

and adored by everybody. While Marix adores in silence, 
Hilarion makes himself loved out of caprice. 

The ending of the story is very sad, and yet I would, with- 
out hesitation, accept Gioja's fate. In the first place, she wor- 
shiped Rome, and then she loved with all her soul. And 
although she was abandoned, it was by him, and, if she suf- 
fered, it was because of him. I do not understand how any- 
one can be unhappy at anything that comes from the hand of 
the man one loves, as she loved, and as I could love, if I ever 
do love. 

She never knew that he had sought her love only from a 
whim. 

"He loved me," she said, "and I should have known how 
to keep him." 

She achieved fame. Her name was repeated with an 
admiration mingled with amazement. 

She never ceased to love him, and he never descended to the 
ranks of other men in her eyes; she always thought him per- 
fect, almost immortal, and she did not wish to die then, 
" because he is alive." "How can one kill one's self," she 
asks, " when the man one loves is still alive?" 

And she died in his arms, with his voice murmuring in her 
ears: " I love you." 

But to love like that, one must find an Hilarion. The man 
one loves in that way must be the descendant of a great family. 
Hilarion was the son of an Austrian nobleman and a Greek 
princess. The man one loves like that must never have need 
of money; he must be no weak player in the game of life, or a 
man afraid of anything in the world. 

When Gioja knelt down and kissed his feet, I like to believe 
that his nails were pink and that he had no corns. 

There comes in my terrible realism! 

This man, finally, must never find the doors of palace or 
club barred to him; never be forced to hesitate before a 
statue he wishes to purchase, or to experience the vexation of 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 327 

not being able to do something he wants to do, no matter how 
foolish that something may be. He must be cowardly only in 
love; but cowardly like Hilarion, who could break a woman's 
heart with a smile, but who would shed tears to see a woman 
want for anything. 

It is not at all incomprehensible. How do men break hearts? 
By not loving at all, or too much. Is it a voluntary act? Can 
they help it? No. Well, there is no use, then, in reproaching 
them in the stupid manner that is the usual custom. 

They are reproached by people who do not stop to think. 

Such a man should always have a palace ready for him in 
all parts of the world, a yacht to carry him wherever his fancy 
lists, jewels to deck out a woman, servants, horses, flute- 
players, even; oh, everything! 

But this is only a story! Very true; but then this love is also 
an invention. You will tell me that one loves men who make 
1,200 francs a year, or who are in receipt of an income of 
25,000 francs, who economize in gloves and calculate the num- 
ber of guests; but it is not the thing I mean. Oh, not at all, 
not at all! 

In such cases one is in love, one is desperate, one poisons 
one's self, one kills one's rival or the faithless lover himself; or, 
perhaps, one becomes resigned. But this is not the slightest 
like the love I am imagining, not the slightest! 

Sensitive as I am, the least thing makes me shiver. 

u Marix and Crispin had sworn to kill him, but she did not 
understand revenge. * To avenge myself for what?' she said, 
* there is nothing to be avenged.' And when Marix cast him- 
self at her feet and swore to be a friend and an avenger, she 
turned aside with horror and disgust. ' My friend?' she said, 
' and you wish him evil?' " 

I can understand how one could wish death to a man one 
has loved, but not to a man one loves. 

I shall never love in the way I can imagine, if I find only 
what I have already seen. I should be too humiliated in him. 



328 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRT SEFF. 

Think of it! Lodged in a second-floor apartment with his 
parents! And I would wager (from what I know through 
Visconti) that his mother gives him clean sheets only twice a 
month. 

But you must turn to Balzac for these microscopic analyses; 
my feeble, miserable efforts will never make me understood. 

Thursday, August 2 $d. — lam at Schlangenbad! How and 
why? Listen. Because, for some reason or other, I don't like 
to be separated from my family; and, since we must suffer, it 
is better to suffer together. 

The family are lodged in a sort of pension at Schlangenbad, 
but as I have had more than enough of the Baroness' pension, 
I said that I wanted to have rooms at the Badehaus, which 
is the best place here. 

My aunt and I, therefore, took two rooms at the Badehaus; 
it is convenient for my baths. 

Fauvel has ordered rest, and I have it here. But I don't 
think that I am yet cured, and in disagreeable things I am 
never mistaken. 

I shall soon be eighteen. That is little for people who are 
thirty-five, but it is much for me, who, in the few months of my 
existence as a young girl, have had little pleasure and many 
sorrows. 

Art! If I had not in the future those three magic letters, I 
should have died long ago. 

But for Art, one has no need of any one, one depends only 
on one's self, and, if one fails, one is worthless and ought not 
to live. Art! I imagine it as a great light away off in the 
distance, and I will forget everything else and press on with 
my eyes fixed upon that light. And now — oh! no! no! now, 
my God! do not frighten me! Something horrible tells me 
that — Ah, no, I will not write it, I do not wish to bring ill-luck 
upon myself! Oh, God — I will try and if — Then there will 
be no more to be said — and — may the will of God be done! 

I was at Schlangenbad two years ago. What a difference! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 329 

Then, I had all hopes; now, I have none. 

Uncle Etienne is, as then, with us, and he has a parrot as he 
did two years ago. The same Rhine, the same vineyards, the 
same ruins, castles, and old towers with legends attached to 
them; and here, at Schlangenbad, delightful balconies, like 
nests of verdure; but neither ruins, nor pretty, new houses 
charmed me. I recognize merit, charm, beauty, where there 
is any, but I can love nothing except below there. 

And, besides, what is there in the world comparable to that 
sunny land? I do not know how to express it, but poets 
have stated it and wise men proved it, before me. 

Thanks to my habit of carrying with me " a heap of useless 
things," I can make myself at home anywhere, at the end of 
an hour; my dressing-case, my writing materials, a few good 
big books, my great work, and my pictures. That is all. But, 
with those, I can make any hotel- room comfortable. What I 
care the most for, are my four, big, red dictionaries, my big, 
green Livy, a small Dante, a medium-sized Lamartine, and my 
likeness, cabinet size, painted in oil, framed in dark-blue vel- 
vet, and encased in a Russia leather case. 

With these, my bureau has at once an air of elegance, and 
the two candles, shedding their light upon the warm and 
pleasant colors, almost reconcile me to Germany. 

Dina is so good, so sweet! How much I would like to see 
her happy! And one word here! Nevertheless, what, a villain- 
ous humbug is the life of certain persons! 

Monday, August 2jt/i. — I have added a sentence to my even- 
ing prayer, five words: Protect our armies; oh, God! 

I might say, truly, that I am anxious; but, in the presence of 
such vast interests, what am I to say — anything? I detest inac- 
tive compassion. I could not speak of our war as I could of 
any ordinary subject; I limit myself to itnsiuervably admiring 
our imperial family, our grand dukes and our poor dear 
Emperor. 

They say we are not doing well. I would like to see the 



330 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Prussians in that wild, arid country, rilled with traitors and 
ambushes! Those excellent Prussians marched through a 
rich and fertile country like France, where at every moment 
they found cities and towns, with plenty for them to eat, 
drink, and steal. I would like to see them in the Balkans! 

Without taking into account that we ourselves are fighting, 
while they, for the most part bought men, and then let them be 
butchered. 

Our soldiers die like disciplined brutes, say those who are 
prejudiced; like heroes, say honest people. 

But everyone is agreed in saying that no one has ever 
fought as the Russians are fighting now. History will verify that. 

Wednesday, August 29th. — As I had been a long time troubled 
by an obscure point regarding the changing from an empire 
to a kingdom and the final dividing up of Italy, I took one of 
Amedee Thierry's books and went into the woods where I read, 
sought, and found what I wanted; then I wandered forth in 
search of adventure, not knowing where I went, and vainly 
imagining encounters like the one I described last year. 

The Russians go from bad to worse. The news from the seat 
of war is, that the defile of Chipka is still in the hands of the 
Russians; to-morrow, we shall know the result of the decisive 
battle. I immediately made a vow not to speak a word until 
to-morrow, so that our side may win. 

At eighteen this is an absurdity! The talents, the hopes, 
the manners, the caprices of my " salad age " have become 
ridiculous at eighteen. To begin painting at eighteen when 
one has pretended before to be able to do everything and even 
better than others! 

There are some who deceive others; I have deceived myself. 

Thursday, August $ot/i. — I did not speak a word, and this 

evening at Wiesbaden we learned that the Russians have 

Chipka, that the Turks are beaten (at least for the moment), 

and that great reinforcements are coming to our aid. 

Saturday, September 1st. — I am much alone, reading and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 331 

thinking, with no one to direct me. Perhaps this is well, but 
perhaps also it is bad. 

What guarantee have I that I am not eaten up with sophisms 
and filled with erroneous ideas? That is a question that will 
be decided after my death. 

Forgive — Forgiveness. There are a verb and a noun much 
used in this world. Christianity commands us to forgive. 

What is forgiveness? 

It is the renunciation of vengeance or the desire to punish. 
But when we had the intention neither of avenging ourselves 
nor of punishing, can viz forgive? Yes, and no. Yes, because 
we assure ourselves and others of the fact, and we act as if 
the offense had never been committed. No, because we are 
not masters of our memories, and so long as we remember, we 
have not forgiven. 

I passed the whole day in the house with my family, and I 
mended, with my own hands, a Russia leather shoe belonging 
to Dina; then I washed a large wooden table, as any cham- 
bermaid might have done, and upon the table I set to work to 
make Varmiki (a paste made of flour, water, and fresh cheese). 
The family were amused to see me kneading the moistened 
flour, with my sleeves rolled up, and upon my head a black- 
velvet cap, like the one Faust wears. 

Then I put on a waterproof and went with Dina to the 
Tyrolese girl's, who sells a host of little things. I asked her 
for M — 's head. She looked bewildered, so I bought a bear 
and we came home. 

Sunday, September 2d. — How can people, who are free to do 
as they please, spend a day in Wiesbaden? 

We went there, nevertheless, to see the most ridiculous 
nation on earth celebrate the defeat of the most cultured. 

I was sleepy, and drank, from time to time, black coffee to 
keep me awake. 

Thursday, September 6th. — I will stay in Paris. That I have 
finally resolved upon, and my mother will be with me. We 



332 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

will not quarrel; and it would be a very good arrangement if 
she were not ill, especially in the evening. She has scarcely 
left her bed since yesterday. 

I have decided to remain in Paris, where I will pursue my 
studies, and in the summer go to some watering-place for 
relaxation. All my caprices are at an end. Russia did me 
good, and I am now completely reformed. And I feel that the 
time has finally come for me to check my course. With my 
abilities, in two years I shall make up for lost time. 

And so, in the name of the Father, and of the Son y and of the 
Holy Ghost, Amen! and may the Divine protection be with me! 
This is not an ephemeral deciswi like so many others, but a final 
one. 

Sunday, September gth. — I have been crying to-day. The 
beginning of my troubled life grieves me. May God preserve 
me from being regarded as a misunderstood divinity, but I am 
unhappy! Many times I have almost thought myself as 
" stricken by an evil genius," and each time I have revolted 
against this horrible thought: 

Nunquam anathematis vinculis exuenda! 

There are some who succeed in everything, while with 
others everything goes wrong. Against the truth of this, noth- 
ing can be said, and that is just the horror of the thing! 

I might have worked seriously for the past three years, but 
at thirteen I was running after the shadow of the Duke of 
H — , a deplorable thing to admit. I do not accuse myself, 
because I did not know how I was wasting my time. I regret 
it, but I do not reproach myself at all. The combined cir- 
cumstances of my unrestricted freedom and my ignorance; 
my exaltation which I believed to be skepticism acquired by 
an experience of forty years, have stranded me, I know not 
where nor how! Others, under the same circumstances, might 
have met with something to lean upon which would have per- 
mitted them to work at Rome or elsewhere, or a marriage; 
but I had nothing. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEF^. 333 

I do not regret having lived in my own way; it would be 
strange to regret it, knowing well that no advice would have 
deterred me. I believe only what I experience. 

Monday, September 10th. — To-morrow, we leave. I love 
Schlangenbad. The trees are magnificent, and the air soft. 
We meet no one unless we wish it. 

I know all the paths, all the walks. One might be happy if 
only contented at Schlangenbad. 

My mother and my aunt do not understand me. In my 
desire to go to Rome, they see the Promenades of the Pincio, 
the opera, and "lessons in painting." And if I were to pass 
my life in explaining my enthusiasm, they might perhaps 
understand it, but as being something useless, a whim of 
mine. Little everyday troubles have absorbed them, and then 
we must be born with a passion for those things, otherwise we 
never understand, however intelligent, superior, and eminent 
we may be. But perhaps I am the one who is stupid! 

I wish I were a fatalist. 

Paris, Wednesday, September igth. — I have been reading 
over my follies with A — , and I fear very much to be taken 
for an idiot, or a person who is a little light. What am I say- 
ing? Light, no! I belong to a respectable family. 

I was only stupid. Do not think I call myself stupid from 
prudery or coquettishness. I say it with the most profound 
sorrow, for I am convinced of it. 

And it was I who wished to conquer the world! At seven- 
teen, I am a blase being — no one knows what I am; but I know 
that I am stupid; A — is witness to it. 

And yet, when I speak, I have wit; never, when needed, it 
is true, but — 

Thursday, September 20th. — Friday, September 21st. — Pro- 
found disgust with myself! I hate all I have done, said, or 
written. I detest myself because I have fulfilled none of my 
hopes. I deceived myself. 

I am stupid; I have no tact, and have never had any. Point 



334 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

out one intelligent word or one reasonable action of mine. 
Nothing but stupidities! I thought myself witty; I am absurd. 
I thought myself daring, and I am timid. I thought I had 
talent, and I do not know to what purpose I have applied it. 
And with that, the pretension of writing charming things. Ah, 
heavens! you may take what I have just said for wit; it 
sounds like it, but it is not. I have discretion enough to judge 
myself accurately, which seems like modesty, and a lot of 
other things. I hate myself! 

Saturday, September 2 2d. — I do not know how it is, but I 
believe I wish to remain in Paris. I believe that one year 
spent at Julian's studio would form a good basis for my future 
work. 

Tuesday, October 2d. — To-day, we removed to 7 1 Champs 
Elys6es. Notwithstanding all the confusion, I had time to go 
to the Julian studio, the only serious one for women. We 
work from 8 o'clock to noon, and from 1 to 5 o'clock. A nude 
man was posing, when Monsieur Julian conducted me into the 
room. 

Wednesday, October 3d. — Wednesday being a favorable day 
for me, and there being in this date no four which is always 
unfavorable for me, I hastened to commence as many things 
as possible. 

I sketched in pencil a three-quarter head in ten minutes, 
and Julian told me he did not expect so much in a beginner. 
I left early; I wished simply to make a beginning to-day. We 
went to the Bois. I gathered, five oak leaves and took them 
to Doucet, who, in half an hour, had made me a delicious little 
blue scapular. But what can I desire? To be a millionaire? 
To recover my voice? Obtain the Prix de Rome under the 
name of a man? Marry Napoleon IV.? Enter into the great 
world? 

/ desire the prompt return of my voice. 

Thursday, October 4th. — The day passes quickly when we 
sketch from 8 to 12 and 1 to 5 o'clock. The distance alone 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 335 

requires one hour and a half, and, besides, I was a little late, 
so I had but six hours of work. 

When I think of the years — entire years — I have lost! Through 
rage, I am tempted to throw up everything, and attempt noth- 
ing; but that would only make matters still worse. Come now, 
miserable and detestable being, be contented to have at last 
made a beginning! At the age of thirteen, I might have com- 
menced ! Four years ! 

I might now be painting historical pictures, had I begun 
four years ago. What I know, only retards me; I must com- 
mence all over again. 

I was obliged to do, twice, the outlines of the head I was 
sketching, before giving satisfaction. As to the academy figure, 
that was very easy, and Monsieur Julian did not correct one 
line. As he was not there when I arrived, a pupil told me 
how to commence. I had never seen an academy figure. 

All I had done until now was but a foolish loss of time! 

At last I work with artists — real artists who have had their 
works exhibited at the Salon, and who are paid for their paint- 
ings and their portraits, who even give lessons. 

Julian was pleased with my first attempt. " At the end of 
the winter, you will be able to make very fine portraits," he 
said to me. 

He said that, among his pupils, women were sometimes as 
capable as the men. I would have worked with the latter, but 
they smoke, and besides, there is no difference. There was a 
difference when the women had only the dressed model; but 
since they do the academy figure — the nude man— there is 
none. 

The maid at the studio is like those described in novels. 

"I have always been with artists," she said;* "I am no 
longer bourgeoise, I am an artist." 

I am contented, contented! 

Friday, October ^th. — " You did that alone?" asked Monsieur 
Julian, coming into the studio. 



336 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

I blushed as if I were lying. 

"Well done! I am much pleased, very much pleased." 

" Yes?" 

" Entirely satisfied." 

And I, then! Then followed some advice. I was still dazzled 
by the superiority of the others over me, but I was already less 
timid. They were all women who had had three or four years 
of serious work in a studio, and at the Louvre. 

Saturday, October 6th. — I have seen no one since I have 
been at the studio. 

"Rest assured," said Julian to me, "you will not be long 
serving your apprenticeship." 

And when mamma came after me, at 5 o'clock, he said some- 
thing like this to her: 

" I believed it was the whim of a spoiled child, but I must 
admit that she really works, that she is gifted and determined. 
If this continues, in three months her drawings can be received 
at the Salon. 1 " 

Whenever he came to correct my drawing, he asked with a 
certain defiant tone, if I had done it alone. 

I should think so, alone! I never asked the advice of any 
of the pupils, except when beginning my academy figure. I 
am becoming already accustomed to the manners of artists. 

At the studio, all are equal; we have neither name nor fam- 
ily; we are no more the daughter of our mother, we are our- 
selves, we are an individual, and before us is art, and nothing 
else. We feel so contented, so free, so proud! 

At last, I am as I have wished to be for so long a time. I 
desired it so long that I can not yet believe it has come. 

By the way, do you know whom I met in the Champs 
Elysees? 

None other than the Duke of H — , occupying an entire 
hackney coach. The handsome young man, somewhat stout, 
with copper-colored hair, and slight mustache, had become a 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 337 

bulky Englishman, with a very flushed face, and small red 
whiskers extending from the ear to the middle of the cheek. 

Four years, however, change a man. At the end of half an 
hour, I thought no more of him. 

Sic transit gloria Due is. 

How foolish I was! 

Monday, October 8tA. — For the head, we had a new model, 
that is to say, in the morning. A sort of cafe chantant singer; 
she even sang during the intervals of rest. In the afternoon, 
we had a young girl for the academy figure. 

They say she is only seventeen years old, but I assure you, 
her form is much impaired. It is said that those wenches 
lead an impossible life. 

The pose was difficult; I had some trouble. - 

People are ashamed of their nudity, because they believe 
they are not perfect. If they were sure of having no blemish 
on their skin, no badly-formed muscles, nor deformed feet, 
they would walk about without clothing and without shame. 
We do not acknowledge it, but it is that and nothing else, we 
are ashamed of. Can we resist the temptation of showing any 
perfection of which we may be proud? From the time of 
King Candaule, who has ever kept to himself a treasure or a 
thing of beauty without boasting of it? However easily satis- 
fled we may be with our face, we are instinctively exacting as to 
our body. 

The sense of shame disappears only in the presence of per- 
fection, beauty being omnipotent, and supreme beauty leaves 
in the mind no other feeling than that of admiration. 

The girl at the studio had straight and pretty, but large, 
fingers; and her feet, although regular and not large, were 
stumpy-looking. 

I said a little while ago that beauty was omnipotent, and it 
is the same with all things that are perfect. 

Music which allows you to notice the defects in the mise-en- 
scene is not perfect. An heroic action which leaves room for 
22 



338 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

any sentiment but admiration, is not the greatest act of hero- 
ism of which you have dreamed. When what you see or hear is 
great enough to control your whole being, then it is almighty. 

When, seeing a nude woman, you say to yourself it is wrong, 
then that woman is not a specimen of perfect beauty, since you 
have room for another idea than that which should enter the 
mind through the eyes. You forget beauty to remark nudity, 
the beauty not being complete enough to occupy you entirely. 
Then they who show themselves are ashamed, and you are 
shocked. 

They are ashamed, knowing that others think it wrong; and 
if it were not thought wrong, they would not be ashamed. 

Therefore: Perfection and absolute beauty destroy and even 
prevent the inception of blame, and consequently suppress the 
sense of shame. 

Tuesday, October gth. — I sketched my singer in close proxim- 
ity. Having arrived late on Monday, I had the worst- place in 
the studio for this week. 

" It is not at ail bad," said Julian; " I am even astonished 
that you have done so well. It is the most difficult pose, and 
how can you work so near? I see you will get on smoothly." 

This is my world. My friends go o-ut, attend theatres, and 
I sketch while awaiting the carnival at Naples, that is, if my 
ideas do not change and nothing unexpected intervenes. 

Wednesday, October 10th. — Do not think that I am doing 
wonders because Monsieur Julian is astonished. He is aston- 
ished because he supposed it only the whim of a rich girl, and a 
beginner. I am wanting in experience, but what I do is true 
and life-like. As to execution, it is all it could be after eight 
days of work. 

All my companions draw better than I do, but their work is 
not so true and life-like. What leads me to believe that I shall 
excel them, is that, while admitting their merits, I shall not be 
contented to be what they are, although beginners usually say: 
If I could but sketch as this or that one! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 339 

They have had practice, study, experience; but those girls of 
forty, will never do better than they do now. Those who are 
young, sketch well arid have time before them, but no future. 

I may not succeed, but it will be only through impatience. I 
shall kill myself with over-work to make up for those four lost 
years; it seems to me it is now too late. 

We shall see. 

Thursday, October nth. — We may try to convince ourselves 
that it is useless to regret what is past; at every instant, I 
repeat: How well all would be if I had studied the last three 
years! I should now be a great artist, and I could, etc. 

Monsieur Julian told the maid of the studio, that Schaeppi 
and I were his most promising pupils. You do not know who 
Schaeppi is? Schaeppi is the Swiss girl. Then Monsieur 
Julian added that I might become a great artist. 

I heard all this from Rosalie. 

It is so cold, I have become hoarse, but I forgive all, pro- 
vided I can draw. 

And draw, why? 

To compensate me for all that I have been deprived of since 
the commencement of the world! For all that I have wanted 
and still want! To succeed by my talent, by — by whatever 
you wish, but to succeed! But if I had everything I want, 
perhaps I would do nothing! 

Fi'iday, October 12th. — " Do you know, Monsieur," I said to 
Julian, " I am entirely discouraged. A lady told me yester- 
day that there was no use in my working, as I had no talent." 

" A lady said that to you?" 

" Why yes, and seriously." 

"Well, you may tell her that in three months — three 
months is not very long — that in three months you will 
draw her portrait — face, three-quarters, or profile, in short, 
whatever she may wish, and a portrait not badly done, do you 
understand? Resembling and not badly done? Well, she will 
see. In three months, and if I say it here, that all those 



340 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ladies may hear me, it is that I am not saying anything very 
remarkable, but what will surely happen." 

These were his very words, spoken with a Marseillais 
accent, which twenty years of Paris have not completely 
effaced — and so much the better. I love the Southern 
accent. 

Saturday, October i$t/i. — It is on Saturday that Monsieur 
Tony Robert-Fleury, the artist who painted " The Last Days 
of Corinth, " which has been purchased by the State and placed 
in the Luxembourg, comes to our studio. Moreover, the first 
artists of Paris come, from time to time, to give us advice. 

- 1 had commenced on Wednesday, and Saturday of the 
same week he was unable to come, so this was the first time for 
me. When he reached my easel, and was beginning his obser- 
vations, I interrupted him. 

"Pardon me, Monsieur, I began only ten days ago." 

"Where did you draw before then?" he asked, looking at my 
drawing. 

14 Why; nowhere." 

44 How, nowhere?" 

44 Yes, I took thirty-two lessons in painting to amuse myself." 

44 We do not call that studying." 

44 1 know, Monsieur, therefore — " 

44 You had never sketched from nature before coming here?" 

44 Never, Monsieur." 

44 It is not possible!" 

44 But I assure you — " 

"You have never had any advice?" 

44 Yes; four years ago I took lessons as a little girl. I copied 
engravings." 

"That is nothing; I did not mean that." 

And as he still appeared incredulous, I added: " I will give 
you my word of honor, if you wish it." 

44 Then you have very extraordinary talent. You are par- 
ticularly gifted, and I advise you to work." 



JOURNAL OP MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 341 

" I have done nothing but that for the last ten days. Do 
you wish to see what I have done before this head?" 

" Yes. I will finish with these young ladies and then 
return." 

"Well," said he, after having visited three or four easels, 
"let me see, Mademoiselle." . 

" Here, Monsieur," I said, commencing with the head of 
Archangelo, but when I wished to show him only two, he 
said: 

" No, no; show m£ all you have done." 

I then showed him my unfinished academy figure, com- 
menced last Thursday; the head of the singer, in which he 
found much character; a foot; a hand, and. the academy figure 
of Augustine. 

" You made that academy figure alone?" 

" Yes, and I had not only never made, but had never seen 
academy figures." 

He was smiling and did not seem to believe me, so I again 
gave him my word of honor, and he repeated: 

" It is astonishing, you have extraordinary talent. This 
academy figure is not at all bad — not at all — and that part is 
even finely done. Work, Mademoiselle," etc. 

Then followed some advice. The others heard all and I 
excited jealousy, because none of them had received anything 
equivalent — they, pupils of one, two, three years, who make 
academy figures with splendid models and who painted at the 
Louvre! Undoubtedly, more is expected of them than of me; 
but still they might have been told the equivalent in another 
way. 

It is then true, and I — I will say nothing; it would only 
bring ill-luck — but I commend myself to God. I fear so 
much! 

All this cost me, during the afternoon, a chiding in the third 
person. The Spaniard — good enough girl, the most obliging 
in the world, with a rage for painting in her head, making her 



342 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

somewhat unjust — this Spaniard, speaking of a Hollander, 
said, when first coming into the studio, we always caused 
astonishment by making rapid progress; that this little, which 
is a great deal to those who know nothing, is quickly acquired; 
that it is only when we know something, that we have the most 
to learn. 

There are but two or three beginners at present! Do they 
progress as I do? 

Let us resume and conclude the story of my success. 

"Well, Mademoiselle?" exclaimed Julian, crossing his arms 
before me. 

I was somewhat frightened and asked him, blushing, what 
was the matter. 

"Why, it is magnificent! You work on Saturday until night, 
when everybody else takes a holiday!" 

" Yes, Monsieur, I have nothing else to do and I must do 
something." 

" It is beautiful. You know that Monsieur Robert-Fleury 
was not at all displeased with you?" 

" Yes, he told me so." 

" Poor Robert-Fleury, he is still ailing somewhat." 

And the master, placing himself beside me, began to con- 
verse — which he rarely does with any of his pupils, and which 
is a great compliment. 

After his visit with us, that poor Robert-Fleury talked with 
that good Julian. Therefore, I wished to know something 
more, expecting only flattering things. 

I went to the master as he finished correcting the drawing 
of an adorable little blonde, who was commencing in the sup- 
plementary room. 

" Monsieur Julian, tell me what Monsieur Robert-Fleury 
said of me. I know that I know nothing, but he could judge 
— a little, how I am commencing, and if — " 

" If you knew what he said to me of you, Mademoiselle, you 
would blush a little." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 343 

"Go on, Monsieur, I will try to listen without too much — " 

" He told me it was very intelligently done, that — " 

" He would not believe that I had never sketched/' 

u No, indeed. In speaking to me he was still a little incred- 
ulous, so I told him how you made that head of Archangelo, 
which I made you do over again. You remember, it was all 
like — in short, like someone who knows nothing." 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

And we laughed. Ah! it was so amusing. 

Now that the surprises, astonishments, encouragements, 
incredulities, all those ecstatic things for me ard passed, now 
work begins. 

Madame D — dined with us. I was calm, reserved, silent, 
and scarcely amiable. I have no thoughts but of drawing. 

While writing, I stopped and thought of all the work required, 
of the time, patience, and difficulties. 

We do not become great artists through talent and genius 
alone, there is always that pitiless mechanical work — And a 
voice has said to me: You will feel neither time, nor difficulties, 
and you will succeed without suspecting it! 

And I believe in that voice! It has never deceived me, and 
it has announced me too many misfortunes to mislead me now. 
I believe in it and I feel that I have cause to believe in it. 

I shall take the Prix de Rome! 

Monday, October \$th\ — The following were our models for 
the week: 

In the morning, an eleven-year-old child, with hair of a 
rusty copper color, very interesting for the head. 

In the afternoon, a man, named Percichini for the academy 
figure. 

In the evening — for the night courses began this evening, 
from 8 to 10 o'clock — another man, also for the academy 
figure. 

Monsieur Julian was amazed to see me there. In the even- 
ing he worked with us, and I was much amused. 



344 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

We talked pleasantly on politics and other things. The cur- 
rent topics were the subject of many piquant remarks. But, as 
he would not give his opinion, I played for him the " Marseil- 
laise. " 

Let me see, how many were we this evening? Myself, the 
Polonaise, Farhammer, a French girl, Amelie (the Spaniard), 
an American, and the master. 

Dina was there. It is so interesting. The light strikes the 
model so well — the shadows are so simple. 

Tuesday, October \6th. — Monsieur Robert- Fleury came dur- 
ing the afternoon, and accorded me particular attention. 

As usual, I spent the whole day at the studio, from 9 o'clock 
to half-past 12. I have not yet succeeded in getting there 
at 8. 

At noon, I leave, breakfast, and return at twenty minutes 
past 1, and remain until 5 o'clock, and at night from 8 to 10; 
which makes nine hours a day. 

This does not tire me in the least; if I could do more, I 
would. There are people who call this work. I assure you I 
consider it play — I say it without boasting. Nine hours are so 
little, and to think I can not do so every day, because it is so 
far from the Champs Elysees to the Rue Vivienne, and then 
because, often, no one will accompany me in the evening, 
which obliges me to return at half-past 6, and as I do not go 
to sleep until midnight, the next day I lose an hour. How- 
ever, in attending the course regularly, from 8 to 12, and 1 to 
5, I will have eight hours. 

In the winter it will be dark at 4. Ah ! well, then I will 
certainly go at night. 

We always have the coupe for the morning, and the landau 
for the rest of the day. 

So you see I must do the work of three years in one; and, 
as I go fast, these three years in one will represent six years 
of the work of a person of ordinary intelligence. 

I am talking like those imbeciles who say : "What another 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 345 

can do in two years, she will do in six months/' That is all 
erroneous. 

It is not a question of speed. If that were the case, we 
should have but to spend the necessary time. Undoubtedly, 
with patience, we would attain a certain result. But, what I 
could do at the end of one or two years, the Danish girl could 
never do. When I begin to redress the errors of humanity, I 
confuse and irritate myself, because I never have the patience 
to finish a sentence completely. 

In short, if I had commenced three years ago, I could be 
satisfied with six hours a day ; but now I must have nine, ten, 
twelve — in short, as many as possible. Indeed, had I com- 
menced three years ago, it would still be better for me to work 
as much as possible; but, after all, what is past is past. 

Gordigiani told me he worked twelve hours a day. 

From twenty-four hours let us take seven for sleeping, two 
for undressing, praying, washing the hands several times, 
dressing, combing — all that, in fact; two for eating and breath- 
ing a little, that makes eleven hours. 

It is true, thirteen remain. 

Yes, but the going and coming take me an hour and a 
quarter. 

Well, yes, I lose about three hours. 

W 7 hen I shall work at home, I will lose them no longer. And 
then — and then — if there are people to see — the Promenade, 
the theatre! 

I shall try to avoid all that, for, to the extent that I enjoy 
them, they are only an annoyance. 

Thursday, October \Zth. — My academy figure seemed so sat- 
isfactory to Julian, that he said it was altogether extraordinary 
and prodigious for a beginner. Perhaps it is not astonishing, 
but there is, at all events, method — and the torso is not bad; it 
is really well proportioned for a beginner. 

All the pupils came to look at my drawing, while I blushed. 

Heavens! I am so pleased. 



346 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The academy figure of the evening was so bad that Monsieur 
Julian advised me to do it,pver again. Wishing to do too well, 
I spoiled it this evening. Day before yesterday, it was not bad. 

Saturday, October 20th. — Breslau received many compliments 
from Robert-Fleury, I none. The academy figure was good 
enough, but not the head. I ask myself, in terror, when I 
shall succeed in drawing well. 

It is just fifteen days that I have worked — of course, except- 
ing the two Sundays. Fifteen days! 

Breslau has been at the studio for two years. She is twenty 
years old, I am seventeen; but Breslau sketched a great deal 
before coming here. 

And I? Wretch! 

I have sketched for only fifteen days. 

How well that Breslau sketches! 

Monday, October 22d. — The model was ugly, and the whole 
studio refused to make it. I proposed that we should go to 
see the Prix de Rome, exhibited at the Beaux-Arts. Half went 
on foot, and we, Breslau, Madame Simonides, Zilhardt, and 
myself, in a carriage. 

We found that the Exposition had closed yesterday. We 
walked on the quays; we looked at old books and old engrav- 
ings, and talked art. Then, in an open hired carriage, we 
went to the Bois. Can you fancy me doing such a thing? But 
I did not wish to object, it would have spoiled their pleasure. 
They were so pleasant and agreeable; we are just beginning to 
become acquainted. In short, all would have gone well, if we 
had not met my family in the landau, and^they followed us. 

I made a sign to the coachman to remain behind, they saw 
me and I knew it; but I did not care to speak to them before 
my artists. I had my cap on my head, and I looked dishev- 
eled and embarrassed. 

Naturally, my family was furious. 

I was terribly bothered. 

In short, an annoying incident. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 347 

Wednesday, October 24th. — In the evening we had a well- 
formed young woman. 

Monsieur Robert-Fleury came last night, and said I was 
wrong in missing the lesson, since I was one of the best workers. 
Monsieur Julian repeated this to me, in a very flattering manner. 

It was very flattering that my absence should be remarked 
by a professor like Robert-Fleury. 

In short, when I think that I might have worked for the 
last four years, at the least — at the least — and I think of it 
always! 

Saturday, October 27M. — I received many compliments, as 
we say at the studio. 

Monsieur Robert-Fleury expressed a satisfactory astonish- 
ment, and told me I was making surprising progress, and that, 
really, I had extraordinary talent. 

" There are many who could not do as much with so little 
practice. This sketch is very well done — let us understand 
each other — very well done for you. I advise you to work, 
Mademoiselle, and if you work, I assure you that you will 
achieve something not at all bad." 

Not at all bad, were his exact words. 

I believe he said: " There are many who have sketched 
more, and can not do as much," but I am not certain enough 
to write such a flattering phrase. 

I had lost Pincio, and the poor animal, not knowing where 
to go, came to the studio, where he usually accompanies me. 
Pincio is a little Roman wolf-dog — white as snow, straight ears, 
eyes and nose black as ink. 

I detest those little white, curly dogs. 

Pincio is not at all curly; he poses so astonishingly, so grace- 
fully, so like a deer on a rock, that I never saw anyone who 
did not admire him-. 

He is almost as intelligent as Rosalie is shallow. Rosalie 
has gone to her sister's wedding. She started this morning, 
after having accompanied me here. 



348 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"How is this, Rosalie," said mamma to her, "you left 
Mademoiselle alone at the studio?" 

"Oh, no, Madame, Mademoiselle remained with Pincio." 

I assure you she said this seriously. 

But, as I am a little stupid, I lost or forgot my guardian. 

Sunday, October 2%th. — Schaeppi has commenced my por- 
trait. 

I never believed that such creatures as she existed. It 
would never enter her head, that a person who is congenial to 
her, could ever wear false hair and powder. 

A man who does not always tell the naked truth is an 
impostor, a liar, a horror. She scorns him. 

Yesterday, she and Breslau, thinking of my uneasiness (I 
was at breakfast), wished to bring Pincio to me immediately; 
but the Spaniard and others exclaimed that they were making 
servants of themselves for me, because I was rich. I ques- 
tioned her closely as to what they thought of me at the studio. 

" They would love you very much if you had less talent; but, 
as it is, they do nothing but criticise you when you are not 
there." 

It will then be the same thing everywhere — I can never pass 
unnoticed, or as others! It is flattering and sad. 

The Spaniard is a girl of twenty-five, who acknowledges but 
twenty-two. She has a passion for painting, and no talent. 
However, she is good, obliging to all. One would think she 
was paid to serve everybody and care for the studio. She 
trembles when Robert-Fleury or Julian pay attention to any of 
the pupils. She is jealous even of me who am just com- 
mencing and who do not know as much as she, certainly; but 
who, unfortunately, have some talent. 

Saturday, November 3d. — Monsieur Robert-Fleury had 
already corrected all the others when I arrived. I presented 
my drawings to him, hiding behind his stool as usual. Ah 
well, I was forced to come out, he said so many agreeable 
things to me. s 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 349 

44 The outlines are not perfect, undoubtedly, but it is astonish- 
ing in suppleness and truth.. This movement is really very 
good. Now, of course, you are wanting in experience, but you 
have all that can not be learned. Do you understand? All 
that which can not be learned. What you have not, can be 
learned, and you will learn it. Yes, it is astonishing, and if you 
will only work, you will do very good things, I am sure of it." 

"And I, also, Monsieur." 

It is 2 o'clock — I am enjoying my Sunday. From time to 
time, I interrupt this historical chronicle to look at a study of 
anatomy and some rough sketches purchased yesterday. 

Wednesday, November ph. — It is gray and damp. I live 
only in the bad atmosphere of the studio. The city, the Bois, 
is death to me. 

I do not work enough. 

I am young, yes, very young I know, but for what I wanted, 
no — I wanted to be celebrated at the age I am now. I have 
foolishly and wrongly wished it, since I did nothing but wish. 

I will reach success, when the most charming of the three 
periods of youth shall have passed away — that for which I 
wanted all. For me, there are three periods of youth: From 
sixteen to twenty, from twenty to twenty-five, and from twenty- 
five to — to whatever you wish. The other periods of youth 
which have been invented are only consolations and stupidities. 

At thirty begins the mature age. After thirty, we may be 
beautiful, young — even younger; but it is no longer the same 
tobacco, as Alexandre Lautrec, son of the Wiesbaden man, 
used to say. 

Thursday, November %th. — There is but one thing which 
could tear me away from the studio before the time, and for 
the whole afternoon, and that is Versailles. As soon as the 
tickets were received, they sent Chocolate after me, and I went 
home to change my dress. 

On the stairway, I met Julian who was astonished to see me 
leave so early. I explained, and told him that nothing but 



350 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Versailles could take me away from the studio. He replied 
lhat that was all the more praiseworthy, since I could so 
easily have amusements. 

" I am amused only here, Monsieur." 

" And you are right! In two months you will see how glad 
you will be that it is so." 

" You know that I wish to become a very strong artist and 
that I do not sketch for pastime." 

"Let us hope so! It would be using an ingot of gold as if 
it were brass, it would be a sin. I assure you that with the 
talent you have, as I see by the astonishing things that you do, 
it will not require more than a year and a half for you to paint 
really well." 

"Oh! " 

" I repeat it — really well." 

"Take care, Monsieur, I shall go away enraptured." 

" I speak the truth as you will see for yourself. At the close 
of this winter you will sketch perfectly well; then you will con- 
tinue to draw, and I give you six months to familiarize your- 
self with the colors — to become an artist in short! " 

Merciful heaven! While rolling toward the house, I smiled 
and wept with joy, and dreamed that I was receiving 5,000 
francs per portrait. 

Only ladies at the station and — until we were installed in the 
gallery we were miserable — it was raining. 

I must not go very often to the Chamber; it might detach 
me from the studio. I should be apt to become interested and 
keep on going, each day being a new page of the same book. 
Politics could become for me such a passion that I would lose 
my sleep. But my politics are over there, in the Rue Vivienne, 
it is through there I shall reach the Chamber, but in another 
way. One year and a half! Why, it is nothing! 

So much happiness frightens me. 

A year and a half for portraits — but for paintings? Let us 
say two or three years — we shall see. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 351 

I was tired at 8 o'clock, but this did not prevent me from 
sketching at least for an hour. 

Saturday, November \oth. — Monsieur Robert-Fleury was 
indisposed, ;ad — he corrected scarcely half of our drawings. 
Nobody received any compliments, not even myself. I was some- 
what astonished, as Julian was satisfied with what I had done. 
Yes, but I was not quite pleased with it. I was grieved. 

We then made rough sketches, one of mine was somewhat of 
a caricature and was a success. Julian made me sign it, and 
placed it in his album. 

How much more disagreeable things affect us than good 
ones! 

For a month, I have heard nothing but encouragements, save 
once, a fortnight ago; that morning, I was scolded and I 
remember only that morning, but it is always thus in every- 
thing. One thousand persons may applaud, and one alone will 
hiss or whistle, and he is heard above the thousand. 

The academy figures of the afternoon and evening were not 
corrected. Ah! but I am excusable! you must remember that 
the models displeased me and that we did not commence until 
Tuesday. On Monday, there was some disorder because of 
the models, and then, moreover, I was placed in front of the 
man, very near and a little below. The most difficult pose. 
But no matter; it is a bad sign, my darling, when you try to 
make excuses. 

Tuesday, November i$th. — The opinion of Monsieur Robert- 
Fleury is never in conformity with that of Julian, so that the 
latter often abstains from saying what he thinks. The gentle- 
men below have Robert-Fleury, Boulanger, and still another. 
We have Robert-Fleury only; it is not just. 

There is to be a competition. First, a competition of places, 
that chance may not give a disadvantageous place to the best 
pupil, and the contrary to one who does not know how to make 
the best use of it. Then a competition of an entire .week. There 
will be one every two months I believe, and Breslau advises 



352 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

me strongly to compete for the places, which would be of use to 
me in two months if not now. 

While awaiting the coup6, which was to come at a quarter to 
8 this evening, I studied my rough sketch. 

Wednesday, November 14//2. — I went to the vicinity of the 
School of Medicine to obtain different books and plasters. At 
Vasser's — you know Vasser who sells all sorts of human forms, 
skeletons, etc. — I have friends there who spoke of me to Mon- 
sieur Mathias Duval, professor of anatomy at the Beaux-Arts, 
and to others, and someone will come to give me lessons. 

I was enraptured. The streets were filled with students who 
were coming out of the schools; those narrow streets, those 
shops where musical instruments are made, all that, in short. 
Ah! I then understood the magic — if one can express it thus 
— of the Latin Quarter. 

I am but the envelope of a woman, and that envelope is 
decidedly feminine; as to the rest, it is decidedly something 
else. I am not peculiar in this. I imagine that all women are 
like me. 

Ah! speak of the Latin Quarter if you like. It is that 
which reconciles me to Paris. I could imagine myself far 
away, almost in Italy — of another sort. 

People of the lower class — otherwise called the bourgeoisie — 
will never understand me; therefore, it is to ours that I address 
myself. 

Wretched young people, read me! 

So my mother is horrified to see me in a place where we see 
such things — oh, such things! " Naked peasants!" When I 
shall make a beautiful painting, you will see only the poetry, 
the flower, the fruit. You will never think of the manure. 
I see but the aim, the end, and I walk toward that end. 
I love to go to booksellers and people who — thanks to my 
modest costume — take me for a kind of Breslau. They look 
at me in a good-natured and encouraging manner, altogether 
different from formerly. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 353 

One morning, I went to the studio with Rosalie, in a cab. In 
payment, I gave the cabman a- 20-franc piece. 

11 Oh, my poor child! I have no change." 

It was so amusing! 

Thursday, November 15th. — We had the competition for 
places, the outline of a head, to be done in one hour. 

The decision will be given Saturday. I feel no uneasiness; 
besides, if I am last, it will be only justice. I have had thirty 
days of study, while the others average one year apiece — not to 
speak of those who have studied outside of this studio, 
studied seriously, being artists by profession. 

That miserable Breslau causes me some uneasiness. She is 
admirably equipped, and I assure you she will get through, and 
not badly. I can not bring myself to understand that she has 
studied at Julian's for nearly five hundred days, and I only 
thirty days; that is to say that, at Julian's alone, she has 
studied more than fifteen times as much as I have. If I am 
truly gifted, in six months, I shall do as well as she. There 
are some astonishing things; but there are no miracles in all 
this, and I — I want miracles. 

I am disappointed in not being a great artist at the end of 
a month. 

Friday, November 16th. — I went to see poor Schaeppi, in a 
boarding-house in the Avenue-de-la-Grande-Armee. 

An artistic mansard, and a neatness which gives it almost 
an air of opulence. 

Breslau lodges there with several other artists. 

Rough sketches, studies, and a lot of interesting things, the 
artistic contact, the atmosphere alone, did me good. 

I can not forgive myself for not knowing as much as Bres- 
lau. It is that — I have never gone to the depths of anything 
in my life. I know a little of everything and I fear to do the 
same here; but no, from the way I am going, it will not be so! 
Not having done a thing before, is no reason why I shall never 
do anything. At every first attempt, I am incredulous. 

23 



354 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Saturday, November ipk. — What displeases Monsieur Rob- 
ert-Fleury most, is any want of resemblance; now, as I always 
catch resemblances easily, and as we never lose the qualities 
we possess, I am not uneasy. 

The decision in the competition was given; there were 
eighteen competitors. I am the thirteenth; there are, then, 
five below me. It is not so bad. The Polonaise first; that is 
not just! I received compliments for my academy figures. I 
bought flayed figures, anatomies, skeletons, and all night I 
dreamed that corpses were brought to me for dissection. 

But what can you expect, I am stupefied, my hands can 
only sketch and touch the harp. 

But then, it is — absurd that Breslau should sketch better 
than I. 

My outline was the most advanced. 

" All that in one hour," exclaimed Monsieur Robert-Fleury, 
" why, she must be a demon!" 

But then, I must tell you that Monsieur Julian and the others 
said, in the gentlemen's studio, that I had neither the hand, nor 
the manners, nor the disposition of a woman, and that they 
would like to know, if, in my family, there were anyone from 
whom I inherited so much talent, and strength, and tenacity 
for work. 

All the same, is it not absurd that I can not yet paint pict- 
ures? 

I can not place my characters well. I tried to sketch a 
scene of the studio. Well, it is not good, it does not look like 
anything. It is true that I made it purely from fancy, and 
that I paid no attention to the real characteristics of my fig- 
ures. No — it is frightful! 

Sunday, November i&t/i. — In the evening I made a rough 
sketch of my wash-stand, or rather, of Rosalie, in front of the 
wash-stand. It is quite life-like; the whole thing pleases 
me. When I can sketch better, I will do the same thing 
again, perhaps even in painting. There never was a sketch 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 355 

of a wash-stand, with a maid in front of it, without love, with- 
out flowers, without a broken vase, without a feather-duster, etc. 

Friday, November 2$d. — That wretched Breslau has com- 
posed a picture: " Monday Morning, or the Choice of a 
Model." All the studio is in it, and Julian is beside me and 
AmeUie, etc. 

It is correctly done, the perspective is good; so are the 
likenesses, in fact everything. 

When one can do a thing like that, one can not fail to 
become a great artist. 

You guess, do you not? I am jealous. It is a good thing, 
because it will urge me on. 

But I have sketched only six weeks. Breslau will always 
be before me, having commenced before. No, in two or three 
months, I shall know how to sketch as well as she does — that 
is to say, very well. I am glad, moreover, to find a rival 
worthy of me. With the others, I would have gone to sleep. 

Ah! it is terrible to wish to draw like a master at the end of 
six weeks' study. 

Grandpapa is sick. Dina is at her post full of self-denial and 
care. She is more beautiful than ever, and so good. If 
heaven does not send her a little happiness, I will say imperti- 
nent things to God. 

Saturday, November 2^th. — This evening, there were only 
Amelie, myself, and Julian, the maid, arid Rosalie, at the studio. 

Monsieur Julian sent for the competition sketches of the 
gentlemen, ours, and the caricatures of the gentlemen. 

We began to examine and judge of our pictures, while 
awaiting the final decision, which will be given on Tuesday, 
by Robert-Fleury, Lefebvre, and Boulanger. 

There will be a struggle between Breslau and a French girl 
(four years of studio, of profiles only, and no sacred fire, but 
a perfect drawing) and another one. Amelie, the Polonaise, 
and big Jenny have paintings. When Monsieur Julian reached 
my head, he said something like the following: 



356 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" You may be badly placed, because you are struggling 
against young girls who have spent three or four years in the 
studio and who are far advanced; but your head is simply a 
most striking resemblance. What you do is phenomenal 
Take this sketch and carry it to whatever great master you 
wish, and ask him how long it requires to sketch thus from 
nature, and no one — no one you understand — will say less than 
one year. Still, indeed, it is full of faults—" 

And he gave me a lesson by comparing my sketch with that 
of the French girl. 

"And your academy figures are also full of faults, but 
there are no outrageous ones. Go and tell anyone that 
at the end of one month or six weeks, you make figures 
so true and life-like, and from nature, and they will say that 
you are laughing at them." 

"But, then, Monsieur, I am not satisfied with myself!" 

And I said it, with conviction, I assure you. 

" Not satisfied?" 

" No! I hope I shall do still better." 

u If you continue, you will do extraordinary things. What 
you do, as I said before, is phenomenal." 

He does not express himself thus before everybody; it 
would cause a revolution. 

Yes, I shall undoubtedly be badly placed; those brutes do 
not know how little time I have studied and, not seeing the 
models, will not appreciate the resemblance. 

I needed a little encouragement, for I assure you this morn- 
ing my spirits were low. 

Monday, November 26th. — At last I have taken my first 
lesson in anatomy, from 4 o'clock to half-past 4, immediately 
after my drawing. 

Monsieur Cuyer teaches me; he was sent by Mathias Duval, 
who promised to take me to visit the school of arts. I com- 
menced with the bones naturally, and one of my bureau 
drawers is filled with vertebrae — natural ones. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 35? 

How hideous, when one thinks that the other two contain 
perfumed paper, visiting cards, etc. 

Returning from the studio, I found Monsieur Cuyer waiting 
in the twilight of the parlor; on the sofa opposite, sat mamma 
and the most Swiss of commanders, Marcuard, returned for 
ten days, who kissed my hand covered with charcoal and — 
which had touched the vertebrae since I had stolen away from 
the parlor to take my lesson. 

Tuesday, November 27th. — Monsieur Julian came to us some- 
what discouraged after the decision of Robert-Fleury, Bou- 
langer, and Lefebvre, and made the following speech: 

" Ladies, the gentlemen have classed only six heads after 
the medal, which, as you already know, was won by Mademoi- 
selle Delsarte (the French girl); the others are simply classified 
for places at the next competition, and the three last will draw 
lots, which, undoubtedly, is to prevent ill-feeling." 

A voice told me that I would be one to draw lots; that would 
have been quite natural. I was much annoyed. 

After this little speech which produced considerable impres- 
sion on everybody, he added these words: 

" I can not tell who did the heads. Will one of the ladies 
tell me? First. Whose is this?" ' 

" Mademoiselle Wick." 

" Second?" 

"Mademoiselle Bang." 

" Third?" 

" Mademoiselle Breslau." 

" Fourth?" 

" Mademoiselle Nordtlander." 

" Fifth?" 

" Mademoiselle Farhammer." 

" Sixth?" 

" It is Mademoiselle Marie!" exclaimed the Polonaise. 

"I, Monsieur?" 

"Yes, Mademoiselle." 



358 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" Why, it is ridiculous!" 

I am among the first six; Amelie, Zilhardt, the Polonaise 
are after me. I am the last comer at the studio, being here 
only since October 3d. Sapristi! 

Everybody congratulated me. Mademoiselle Delsarte said 
very amiable things to me, and her sister Marie called us the 
two heroines of the competition. 

" What you have accomplished in so short a time, is better 
than a medal after four years of study!" 

A success, and what a charming success! 

Friday y November $oth. — I have at last brought my mando- 
lin to the studio, and that charming instrument charmed 
everybody, the more so, as, to those who have never heard it, I 
seem a good player. During the evening recess, as I was 
playing, accompanied on the piano by Am<§lie, the master 
entered and listened. Had you seen him, you would have 
seen an enraptured man. 

" I, who thought the mandolin was a sort of guitar which 
was scraped. I did not know it could sing. I never imagined 
one could draw from it such melodious sounds. Ah! I will 
never speak badly of it again. I really enjoyed it. Ah! it is 
fine. You may laugh if you wish, but I assure you that it 
scrapes something in the heart. It is queer!" 

Ah, wretch! then you feel it! 

This same mandolin had no success, when, one evening at 
home, I played it for some society people (ladies and gentle- 
men), and they are people who always pay compliments. 
Many lights, heart-shaped waistcoats, rice-powder, all that 
destroys the charm; while the lights of the studio, the calm, 
the night, the dark stairway, the fatigue, dispose you to all 
there is in the world of sweetness, of mirth, of pleasure, of 
charm. 

This is a terrible trade of mine. The long distance to go 
and eight hours of work a day; moreover, work both consci- 
entious and intelligent. Yes; truly nothing is so stupid as 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 359 

to sketch without thinking of what you are doing, without 
comparing, without remembering, without studying — that 
would not be fatiguing. 

Were the days longer, I would work more, that I might 
return to Italy. 

I must succeed. 

Wednesday, December $th. — It was dark all day; we could 
not sketch, so I went to the Louvre with a Finlander who 
looks like an English governess. I walked the whole distance, 
enchanted with the style of my otter bonnet and my long otter 
cloak, which touched the ground. 

We learn something looking at beautiful things, when we are 
with someone who knows something. 

Saturday, December 8tk. — I went to the theatre; it was very 
amusing, and we laughed all the time* — lost time which I 
regret. 

I work badly this week. 

There are many stories of the studio that I might relate; but 
I consider my studio only on its serious side, and think of 
nothing else, it would be beneath me. I regret this evening. 
I was not seen by any one and I did not study. I laughed, 
it is true, but that sort of satisfaction is of no use to me; there- 
fore, it is disagreeable since it gives me no pleasure. 

Sunday, December gt/i. — Doctor Charcot has just gone. I was 
present at the consultation and I also heard what the doctors 
afterward said. Since I am the only one who is calm, I am 
considered as a third doctor. They anticipate no fatal result 
at present. 

Poor grandpapa! I should have been grieved if he had died 
now, because we have often quarreled; but as his illness will 
be long, I have time to make up for my hasty temper. I 
remained in his room when he was at his worst — my presence 
near the sick is always a sign that the illness is serious, because 
I detest useless eagerness, and it is only when I allow myself 
that I appear troubled. 



360 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

You see how I always praise myself at every opportunity. 

I saw the new moon over my left shoulder. It annoys 
me. 

Do not think that I was ever brutal to grandpapa. I only 
treated him as an equal; but now that he is ill, very ill, I 
regret it and wish I had endured everything without a word. 

We never leave him, as he immediately calls the missing 
one. George is near him, and Dina, of course, is never far 
from the bedside. Mamma is ill of uneasiness. Walitzky, that 
dear Walitzky runs, and nurses, and grumbles, and consoles. 

I said that I wished I had endured all without a word; I 
appear, from that, to be an unfortunate being who is ill-treated. 
There was nothing to endure; but I am easily provoked and 
provoking, and as grandpapa was also, I would become impa- 
tient, and I would answer him sharply, and often I was wrong. 
I do not want to pose as an angel, hiding behind a mask of 
wickedness. 

Tuesday, December nth. — Grandpapa has lost the power of 
speech. It is horrible to see this man, who, so short a time 
ago, was yet strong, energetic, young — to see him like this, 
almost a corpse! 

I continue to draw the bones. I am more than ever with 
Breslau, Schaeppi, etc. 

Wednesday, December 12th. — At 1 o'clock, the priest and 
deacon came to administer the last sacraments to grandpapa. 
Mamma wept and prayed aloud. Afterward, I went to break- 
fast. How strong the animal is in every human being! 

Saturday, December i$th. — Naturally, Breslau had an enor- 
mous success; she does sketch well. As for me, they found 
something very good in my head, and some points not bad in 
my academy figure. 

I am — I know not what. Breslau has drawn for the last 
three years and I for only two months — never mind, it is igno- 
ble! Ah! had I commenced three years ago — only three years, 
it is not much — I would now be known! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 361 

A comedy is being enacted at the studio. We had taken 
up a subscription to present Robert-Fleury and Julian with a 
photograph of all the pupils in the studio. The Spaniard, 
forgetting herself in her desire to be a sort of leader, was 
impertinent to Breslau, who resented it, and the studio became 
divided. 

The Swiss— five in number, one for all and all for one — 
would not speak to the Spaniard. The descendants of William 
Tell refused to take part in the subscription and became 
thoroughly angry. I gathered them in the antechamber, and 
demonstrated the stupidity of their conduct. In acting thus, 
they filled the Spaniard with joy, by according her so much 
importance, and besides, it was an affront to the master. 

In short, they reversed their decision. Then, to show the 
Spaniard that I refused absolutely to recognize her as a 
superior, I offered to break the deadlock this morning at 9 
o'clock, which was before the arrival of the terrible Spaniard. 
The resolution was supported and acted upon, and I counted 
107 francs and 1 sou. I then announced the result in the 
salon des pldtres. 

" Is Mademoiselle A — here?" I was asked by a sort of fruit- 
vender, whose daughter takes drawing lessons. 

" No, Madame." 

" It is strange, I thought it was she who had — " 

" It was all the pupils, Madame, who subscribed, therefore 
all the pupils have wished to know the result, and it was before 
them that we broke the deadlock. Good-day, Madame/' 

The Spaniard arrived and said nothing; but I can boast of 
having one hatred more against me. 

I can also boast that I snap my fingers at it. 

Saturday, December 22d. — Robert-Fleury spoke thus to me: 
"We must never be contented with ourselves." Julian also 
said the same. Therefore, as I have never been satisfied with 
myself, I began to reflect on those words; so, when Robert- 
Fleury had said many good things to me, I answered that he 



362 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

did well to tell me so, as I was very much discontented with 
myself — discouraged and hopeless. That made him open his 
eyes in surprise. 

And truly, I was discouraged. From the moment I cease to 
astonish, I am discouraged; it is unfortunate. 

In short, I have made unheard-of progress. I have, they 
repeat to me, " extraordinary talent." My work is " life- 
like," " harmonious," -and " true." " What more do you wish, 
Mademoiselle? Be reasonable," he ended by saying. 

He remained a long time in front of my easel 

" When we can sketch thus," said he, pointing to the head, 
" we have no right to draw such shoulders." 

Some of the Swiss and I, disguised ourselves and went to 
Bonnats' to be taken in his studio for men. He explained to 
us that his fifty young men were under no surveillance, and 
that it was absolutely impossible. We then went to Mun- 
kacsy's — I do not know if I write it correctly — a Hungarian 
artist, who has a magnificent hotel and great talent. 

He knew the Swiss girls; they had a letter of recommenda- 
tion to him a year ago. 

Saturday, December 29th. — Monsieur Robert-Fleury was 
much pleased with me. He remained at least half an hour 
before a pair of feet, natural size, which I had drawn. Asked 
me again if I had ever painted, and if I seriously wished to 
paint; how long I should remain in Paris; expressed a desire 
to see my first works in colors. He asked how I had come to 
do them. I answered that I had done them to amuse myself. 
As the conversation was so prolonged, everybody came and 
stood behind him to listen, and in the midst (I dare say it) of 
the general stupefaction, he declared that, if I wished it, I 
could paint. 

To this I answered that I was not dying to do so, and 
that I would prefer to perfect myself in drawing. 

Sunday, December 30/// and Monday, December 31^/. — I am 
sad; the holidays were not celebrated at home, and that makes 



JOURNAL CF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 363 

me sad. I went to the Christmas tree at the home of the Swiss 
girls; it was gay and pleasant, but I was sleepy, having worked 
until 10 o'clock at night. We told one another's fortunes. 
Breslau will be crowned, I will get the Prix de JZo?ne, and the 
others got blanks. 

It is very funny, all the same. 



1878. 



Friday, January ^th. — How queer it is that my former self 
sleeps so soundly! Scarcely anything left of it; a memory 
from time to time awakening old bitterness, but I immediately 
think of — of what? Of art? It makes me laugh. 

Is this the final transformation? I have so long and so 
persistently searched this end, or this means of existing with- 
out cursing myself, or without cursing the rest of creation all 
day, that it is difficult for me to believe that I have found it. 

In my black frock, there is something which recalls Marie 
Antoinette in the Temple. 

I am becoming what I desired to be. Sure of myself, tran- 
quil outwardly, I avoid bickerings and wrangles. I do few 
useless things. 

In short, I am perfecting myself little by little. Let us 
understand this word perfection — perfection for me, I mean. 

Oh, time! that is required for everything! 

Time is more terrible, more enervating, more crushing than 
ever, when there are no other obstacles. 

Whatever may happen, I am better prepared than before; 
when it maddened me to admit that I was not perfectly happy. 

Sunday, January 6th. — Well! I am of your opinion, time 
passes, and it would be a hundred times pleasanter to employ 
it as I before wished; but, since that is impossible, let us await 
the result of my talent. There will always be time enough for 
anything else. 

We have changed lodgings; we are at 67 Avenue de L'Alma. 
From my windows I see the passing carriages of the Champs 
Elys6es. I have a parlor studio of my own. 

(364) 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 365 

Grandpapa was carried, it was so sad to see it! Scarcely 
was he in his chamber when Dina and I surrounded him and 
waited on him, and poor grandpapa kissed our hands. 

My bed-room reminds me of Naples. A mirror was broken 
in grandpapa's room. 

Yes, my room reminds me of Naples. The time for travel- 
ing approaches, and I feel something like the perfume of the 
old idleness invading me. In vain! 

Monday, January jth. — To believe, or not to believe, in an 
artistic future? Two years are not death, and in two years 
the idle existence may be recommenced, theatres, journeys — I 
want to become famous! 

I will be! 

Saturday January 12th. — Walitzky died during the night, at 
2 o'clock. 

Last night, when I went to see him, he said, half jestingly 
and half sadly: " Addio, signorina" to remind me of Italy. 

It was, perhaps, the first-time in my life that I shed tears 
for any other reason than selfishness or anger. 

There is something particularly heart-rending in the death 
of a thoroughly good, inoffensive being; it is like a poor dog 
that has never hurt any one. 

At 1 o'clock, as he seemed easier, the ladies went to their 
rooms. My aunt was there alone, when he began to gasp for 
breath to that extent that water had to be thrown in his face. 

When somewhat revived, he arose and declared he would go 
and say good-bye to grandpapa; but he had scarcely reached 
the corridor when he crossed himself three times, and cried 
out in Russian, adieu! but in a voice so strong that mamma 
and Dina awakened and ran in only to see him fall into the 
arms of my aunt and Tryphon. 

I can not realize it; it seems so impossible; it is so terrible! 

Walitzky is dead! It is an irreparable loss. One who did 
not know him could never imagine that such a character could 
exist in real life. 



366 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

He was attached like a dog to all our family, with a truly 
Platonic affection. 

We read of such people. Ah! well, may he know my 
thoughts! I hope that God allows him to feel what I think 
and say of him. May he hear me, from the place he now is, 
and if he ever had cause to complain of me, he will forgive 
me, because of my profound esteem, my sincere friendship, 
and my heartfelt regrets for him. 

Monday, January 2%th. — The competition will be judged 
to-morrow; I am so afraid of being badly placed! 

Tuesday, Januaij 29th. — 1 had such a fear of the competi- 
tion that it required superhuman efforts from that poor Rosalie, 
to get me out of bed. 

I expected to receive the medal, or to be classed among the 
very last only. 

Neither the one nor the other; I remained in the same place 
as two months ago; consequently, I have neither advanced nor 
retrograded. 

I went to see Breslau, who is still ill. 

Tuesday, February 12th. — They deceived me as to the hour for 
taking my place, and then the Spaniard and two others asserted 
that they had said nothing to me, and that I had made the 
mistake myself. This lie, like all lies, revolted me, the more 
so as those I had defended in that affair of the Swiss girls, 
did not say one word to affirm that I was right. 

I tell this that it may be known; I have no need of pro- 
tection; I cry out only when I am in the right. 

This morning I could not work at all, I could see nothing; 
and in the afternoon, Bertha came, and I took a half holiday. 

This evening at the Italian opera, they sang " La Traviata "; 
Albani, Capoul, and Pandolfini. Great artists, but it did not 
please me; during the last act, I had not a desire to die, but I 
said to myself that I was going to suffer and die at the very 
moment when happiness should come to me. 

I make that prediction. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 367 

I was dressed in a baby-waist, which is very graceful when 
one is slight and well-formed. The white ribbon on my 
shoulders, the bare neck and arms made me resemble an 
infanta of Velasquez. 

To die? That would be absurd, and yet, it seems to me 
that I am going to die. I can not live; I am not constituted 
like other people. I have a great deal too much of some 
things in my nature, and a great deal too little of others, and 
a character that is inconsistent. Were I a goddess, and had 
the whole universe at my service, I would find the service bad. 
Nothing can be more fantastic, more exacting, more impatient 
than I, sometimes, or perhaps even always. I have a certain 
depth of reason, of calm; but I do not explain myself well, I 

' merely tell you that my life can not last. My projects, my 

I hopes, my overthrown vanities! I deceived myself in every- 
thing. 

Wednesday, February \$th. — My drawing does not get on 

, well, and it seems to me that some misfortune or injury will 
happen to me, as if I had done something wrong, and feared 
the consequences. I pity myself, but I feel something like 
fear. 

Mamma makes herself entirely unhappy, through her own 

I fault; there is one thing which I request and beseech her not 
to do, and that is to not touch my things, not to put my room 
in order. Well, whatever I may say, she continues to do it 

j with an obstinacy which is a positive disease. And if you 

i knew how exasperating it is, and how it increases my impa- 
tience and my harsh manner of speaking, which need no aug- 

| mentation, heaven knows! 

I believe she loves me very much. I love her very much 
also, but we can not remain together two minutes without exas- 
perating each other to tears. In short, we suffer much 
together; but we would be sad if separated. 

I am willing to give up everything for art. I must remember 
that art only is life. 

1 



368 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

By that, I will obtain an independence, and then, what is to 
come, may come. 

Friday, February i$th. — I will not go to the opera to-mor- 
row. I sketch as usual, which does not prevent me from being 
discontented with myself. I said so to Robert-Fleury some- 
time ago, and Saturday, when he was correcting our academy 
figures, he said: 

" You have made this?" 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

" You have never sketched in a class before you came here?" 

"Why, no!" 

" I believe that you complain?" 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

" Of going too slowly?" 

"Oh yes, Monsieur!" 

"Well, were I in your place, I should be very well satisfied." 

This was said with such good-natured gaiety, it was worth 
many compliments. 

Yes! but when can I — paint portraits? — In one year — I hope 
so, at least. 

Sunday, February 24th. — I will go to the studio, and I will 
prove that one can succeed, when one is determined, des- 
perate, wounded, and furious as I am. 

Ah! the road is long! we become impatient, it is natural. 
Yes, I am impatient, but at twenty I shall not be too old to 
commence to go into society, and at twenty I shall already 
know if my hopes of an artistic future were well founded. 

Saturday, March 2d. — Robert-Fleury was satisfied with me 
this morning. 

Monday, March 4th. — My dog has been lost since Saturday, 
and I hoped all along that he would return. 

My poor dog; if I had room for any sentiment, I would be 
desolate. 

My poor lost dog! 

If I had to die for all I am wanting, for all I have lost! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 369 

At present, I believe I am an unappreciated being! 

It is the most abominable thing we can think of ourselves. 

A hundred thousand pretensions, none of which are justi- 
fied! We knock ourselves on every side and are covered with 
bruises. 

luesday, March 12th. — When I think of Pincio, who is now 
hopelessly lost, it wrings my heart. 

I loved him so much, and to lose him grieved me almost as 
much as the death of Walitzky. 

Especially when I think that the animal is in the hands of 
strangers, that he misses me, and that I will never see again 
his little physiognomy, and his black eyes and nose, which are 
so extraordinary. Good, I have'made myself cry now. 

Oh! Sapristi\ a thousand oaths of all sorts! I really believe 

( that I would rather see C — , or any one else wounded, sick, 

or ruined, than to never again see my dog that I loved so 

much. I feel a true sorrow, and I sneer at all else. 
1 7 

Wednesday, March i$th. — Julian admired jestingly my stoi- 

i cism, and the Spaniard remarked that persons who worked 
coldly could do only ordinary things; as for her, she works 
with so much passion, that she has worked night and day for 
nearly four years; she can not succeed in putting together a 
head and an academy figure; she has an eye for color, however. 
If I were a man, I would not want to marry her; she pro- 
i duces nothing but deformities. 

My uncles, who, personally, can not understand the friend- 

1 ship which exists between C — and myself, suppose that I am 

tenderly interested in him; it is evident that they do not 

understand at all, for to fall in love with C — would be like 

burying one's self alive. 

Saturday, March 16th. — I went to the Exposition at the 
Mirlitons. I truly love my profession, and I am happy to 
continue telling myself so. " For sometime," said Robert- 
Fleury to me this morning, " there has been apparently a certain 
limit which you can not pass; that is not well. With the 
24 



370 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

talent which you really have, you should not stop at easy 
things; especially since what is most difficult, you already 
possess." 

I know it well; but think of it, a portrait to make at home, 
amid all the domestic annoyances! But that will trouble me 
no more — I won't allow it. C — can give me nothing, whilst 
painting will give me something. 

But Monday! How I will pass the limit mentioned by 
Robert-Fleury ! I must first be convinced that I must succeed, 
and I will succeed. 

Saturday, March 23d. — I promised you that I would pass 
that limit mentioned by Robert-Fleury. 

I have kept my word. They were excessively pleased with 
me. They repeated that it was worth the trouble of working 
with such real talent as I possessed, that I had made astonish- 
ing progress, and that in a month or two — 

" You will be one of the best of the pupils, among the 
strongest, and note," said Robert-Fleury, looking at the absent 
Breslau's canvas, " note that I speak of those who are not 
present." 

"You may expect," said Julian tome, in a low voice, " you 
may expect to be detested here, for I have never seen anyone 
make the progress you have in five months." 

" Julian," said Robert-Fleury, before everybody, "I have 
just paid the highest compliments to Mademoiselle, who is 
wonderfully gifted." 

Julian, notwithstanding his big body, seemed to have wings. 
For Robert-Fleury is not paid, and corrects only through 
friendship, so that Julian is happy, when the pupils interest the 
master. 

Julian was present at the correction of the academy figure, 
(which he has never been before) but, since Monday, I have 
noticed that he followed mine with curiosity. 

In short, with my ordinary modesty, I will dwell no more on 
flattering things, limiting myself to stating an increase of fifty 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 371 

per cent, of envy in some, and envy and uneasiness in the 
rest. 

The others commence to paint almost whenever they choose; 
but having placed myself under the special direction of Robert- 
Fleury, who wishes it so, I do nothing without his order. And 
to-day, he ordered me to make, from time to time, anything 
from inanimate nature; something simple to accustom myself 
to handling colors. That was the second time he spoke of 
painting to me. 

Next week, or the following one, I will make for him, on a 
No. 8 canvas, the head of my skeleton with a book, or anything 
else well arranged. 
■ Monday, March 2$th. — The competition has begun. A 
, woman who somewhat resembles Croizette is the model. 

I have a good enough place, angl I believe that I am doing 

• well; I do not wish, however, to tire myself out by staying up late. 

Robert-Fleury came this evening. He is decidedly much 

I pleased with me; he questioned me on anatomy, and naturally 

1 I answered without hesitation. 

It is too odious to be like me; but I thank God for being 
wise, and not in love with anyone. If I were, I should kill 
; myself with rage. 

Saturday, March $oth.- — I had not calculated that, from my 
| place, I should have to turn my head to see the model. This 
i turning made me very nervous, and my picture is as bad 
j as possible. I am convinced that I shall be the last, and I said 
1 so aloud. 

The night courses are over, I shall have to organize some 
work at home. 

Thursday, April ^th. — I went early to the studio. I learned 
of the decision, which is absolutely senseless, and which has 
astounded everyone. 

Vick had the medal (this is quite natural). Then comes 
Madeleine (who nearly always gets the medal), and then I. I 
was so surprised that I was not even pleased. 



372 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

It was so astonishing that Julian went to Lefebvre (the one 
who was elected first by the Jury of the Salon), and asked why 
he had placed us thus. Lefebvre and all the pupils from 
down-stairs said, that I had been placed third because they 
saw that I had the true sentiment of drawing. As to Breslau, 
it appears that her sketch was tainted with chic. She was far 
from the model, and there was, consequently, a certain soft- 
ness; but as the professors are prejudiced against women they 
took that for chic. 

Fortunately for me, Robert-Fleury was absent. Lefebvre and 
Boulanger were the only judges, otherwise it would have been 
said that I was third, through the favoritism of Robert-Fleury. 

I do not know what to do with my evenings, since the night 
course has closed, and it wearies me. 

Saturday, April 6th. — Robert-Fleury really encourages me 
too much. He thought that the second place was due to me, 
and it did not astonish him at all that I was placed as I was. 

It was curious to see the stupid fury of the others. I went 
to the Luxembourg and then to the Louvre with Schaeppi. 
To think that M — , on leaving our house, probably goes home 
and dreams of me, and thinks, probably, that I am dreaming 
of him! 

Whilst I, undressed, in disorder, with disheveled hair, and 
with my slippers on the floor, was asking myself if I had 
bewitched him enough; and not contented with asking myself, 
I asked Dina. 

Nevertheless, oh, youth! two years ago I would have thought 
that this was love. Now, I am reasonable, and I understand 
that it is merely amusing when you feel that you inspire love, 
or, rather, when you believe that someone is becoming enam- 
ored of you. The love we inspire and the love we feel are 
two distinct sentiments, and I confounded them in the days 
gone by. 

Good heavens! and I thought I loved A — , with his big 
nose, which resembles that of M — . Fie! Horror! I am so 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 373 

glad to justify myself! So glad! No, no! I have never loved, 
and if you could imagine how happy I feel — free, proud, and 
worthy of the one who is yet to come! 

Tuesday, April yth. — I worked happily in the morning; but in 
the afternoon, I remained in bed. I was suffering. It lasted 
two hours, after which I arose, almost glad to have suffered. 
It is so good afterward, we are so glad to laugh at illness. 
How beautiful is youth!! 

Twenty years from now, my suffering will last a whole day. 

I finished " Le Lys dans la Vallee"; it is a very tiresome 
book in spite of its beauties. 

Nathalie de Manerville's letter, which terminates the book, 
is charming and true. 

To read Balzac is detrimental to me; for this time, employed 
in working, would help me to become a Balzac in painting! 

Friday, April 12th. — Yesterday, Julian met Robert-Fleury at 
the cafe, and Robert-Fleury said that I was truly an interest- 
ing and astonishing pupil, and that he expected much from me. 
It is such words as these that I must constantly bear in mind, 
especially in those moments when all my intelligence is invaded 
by that inexplicable and frightful terror, and when I feel 
myself sinking without real cause into an abyss of doubt and 
of torments of all sorts. 

For some time past, it has happened very frequently that 
there have been three candles in my room at the same time, 
which is a sign of death. 

Is it I who am to depart for the other world ? It seems to 
me so. And my future and my fame? Oh, well, they will be 
lost! 

If there were a man on the scene, I would believe that I was 
in love, so uneasy ami; but as there is none, I am disgusted. 

Nevertheless, there are days when I think that I do not do 
wrong to follow my own caprices; on the contrary, I give 
evidence of pride or of contempt for others, by not going 
against my own wishes. Oh! but men are all so low and 



374 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

unworthy that I am incapable of troubling myself about them 
for one single instant. To begin with, they all have corns on 
their feet, and I would not forgive that in a king! Imagine 
me dreaming of a man who has corns on his feet! 

I commence to believe that I have a serious passion' for my 
profession, which reassures and consoles me. I want nothing 
else, I am too much disgusted with everything to care for 
anything but art. 

If it were not for this uneasiness and fear, I would be happy. 

The weather is beautiful, it is spring at last; we appreciate 
it as much as it is possible in Paris, where, even in the most 
charming woods, under trees which seem mysterious and 
poetic, we are always sure of finding a waiter with his white 
apron tucked up, and a tray in his hand. 

I arise with the sun, and reach the studio before the model. 
Oh, if I did not have this fear, this accursed superstition! 

I remember, in my infancy, I had a presentiment and a fear 
somewhat like this; it seemed to me that I could never learn 
anything but French, and that the other languages could not 
be learned. Ah! well, you see that it was absolutely nothing, 
and, nevertheless, it was as strong a superstitious fear as the 
present one is. 

I hope that memory will console me. 

I believed that the search for the absolute was altogether dif- 
ferent, because I am also searching for the absolute. But the 
absolute of sentiments is the absolute in all things. That is 
what makes me think and write forty thousand questions, the 
answers to which I finally discover; but only after many mis- 
takes and much trouble. 

Saturday, April i$th. — At twenty-two years of age I shall be 
famous or dead. 

Perhaps you believe that we work with the eyes and fingers 
only? You, who are of commonplace intellect, can never know 
how much unremitting attention, continual comparisons, cal- 
culation, sentiment, reflection, is required to obtain success. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 375 

Yes, yes, what you say — you say nothing, however; but I 
swear it to you on the head of Pincio (that seems stupid to you; 
to me, no) that I shall be celebrated. I swear it to you; I swear 
it to you seriously; I swear it to you on the Gospel, on the pas- 
sion of Christ, on myself, that in four years I shall be celebrated. 

Sunday, April i^th. — Poor grandpapa, he takes interest in 
everything; he suffers much in being unable to speak. I guess 
his meaning better than the others; he was so happy this 
evening; I read the newspapers to him and we all chatted in 
his room. It was for me both a sorrow and a joy. 

And now my spite, my rage, my despair, find no expression 
in the human tongue!! If I had sketched from the age of 
fifteen, I would be already celebrated!! 

Do you understand? 

Saturday, April 20th. — Last night, when putting away this 
manuscript, I read a few pages and, at last, came, by chance, 
upon A — 's letter. 

For a long time, this made me dream and smile, then dream 
again. I went to bed late, but it was not time lost; we do not 
have these delightful moments when we wish, we have them 
only when we are young; we must take advantage of them, 
appreciate them, and enjoy them, as with all that God gives 
us. The young do not know how to appreciate their youth; 
but I — I am like an old person who knows what everything is 
worth, and who does not want to lose any enjoyment. 

Because of Robert-Fleury I was unable to go to confession 
before mass, which forced me to put off communion until 
to-morrow. The confession was original, here it is: 

"You are not without sin," said the priest, after the usual 
prayer, " are you not subject to laziness?" 

"Never." 

"To pride?" 

" Always." 

" You do not fast?" 

" Never." 



376 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" You have offended someone?" 

" I do not believe so, but it may be; many little things, my 
father, nothing serious." 

" May God forgive you then, my daughter, etc." 

My tranquillity of mind has returned; I have proved it this 
evening by conversing without any nonsense; I am calm, and 
I fear absolutely nothing, either morally or physically. Often 
I have said: I had an atrocious fear of going there, or doing 
this. It was an exaggeration of language, which is common to 
almost everybody, and which means nothing. What pleases 
me is, that I am acquiring the habit of conversing with every- 
one; this is necessary if we wish to have a pleasant salon. 
Formerly, I would notice one and disregard the others, or 
nearly so. 

Saturday \ Api'il 27//* (Sunday, April 2 < &tJi). — I foolishly took 
the idea into my head to invite some men to the midnight 
mass at our church. 

At our right was the Ambassador, the Duke of Leuchtem- 
berg and his wife, Madame Akenfieff. The duke is the son of 
the Grand Duchess Marie, who died at Florence, and nephew 
of the Emperor. This couple were at Rome when I was there, 
and Madame Akenfieff was not received at the embassy. At 
present, she plays the grand duchess admirably; moreover, 
she is still a beautiful and majestic woman, although very thin. 
Ah, well! the husband is always full of little attentions for the 
wife; it is admirable, and altogether charming. 

The embassy gave the Easter supper which took place after 
mass at 2 o'clock in the morning, in the priest's house, which, 
being very near the church, was prepared for the occasion. 
But it was the ambassador who sent the invitations, and who 
received; we, therefore, had the good fortune of being seated 
at the same table as the grand duke, his wife, the ambassador, 
and all that is best of Russia in Paris. 

I was sad but not displeased, because it will throw me back 
into my studies with renewed ardor. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF. 377 

Why should not the Prince Orloff, who is a widower, fall in 
love with me and marry me? I would be ambassadress at 
Paris, almost empress. Monsieur Anitchkoff, who was ambas- 
sador at Teheran, married a little personage for love, although 
he was over fifty-five years of age. 

I did not produce all the effect I could have desired; 
Laferriere was late, and I had to wear an unbecoming dress; 
I had to improvise a chemisette, as the dress was decollete, 
and therefore unsuitable. On the dress, depended my humor; 
on my humor, my demeanor and the expression of my face — 
everything. 

Monday, April 29th. — From 8 o'clock in the morning to 6 
o'clock at night, from which we must deduct an hour and a 
half for breakfast, there is nothing so good as regular work. . 

To speak of something else, I will tell you that I believe 
that I shall never be seriously in love. I discover always 
--something comical in a man, and then all is lost. If 
nothing ridiculous, it is awkwardness, or stupidity, or dullness; 
in short, there is always something wrong, the tip of the ear, 
perhaps. 

It is true that so long as I do not find my master, I will not 
allow myself to be caught by any charm; my mania for hunting 
out the defects of people will prevent me from being 
smitten by any Adonis in the world. 

How ridiculous are the people who go to the Bois, and I 
can not understand their empty and stupid existence! 

Friday, May 3d. — There are moments when I would give 
up all the intellectual pleasures in the world, fame and paint- 
ing, to go and live in Italy a life of sunshine, music, and love. 

Saturday, May 4th. — I adore all that is simple in painting, 
sentiments, in fact, in everything. I have never had simple 
sentiments, and I shall never have them, for they are impossible 
where there are doubts and apprehensions founded on anterior 
facts Simple sentiments can exist only in happiness or in the 
country, in the ignorance of all those things which — 



378 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I am essentially a meddlesome character; as much by an 
excess of ingenuity as by self-love; I desire to analyze, to seek 
the truth. I have a fear of taking a wrong path, of non-suc- 
cess. 

Sunday, May $th. — I have been seven months at the studio. 

I went again to the Exposition with Anna Noggren. We ran 
over everything lightly, except the paintings, which alone inter- 
ested us. 

I was surprised at the portrait of Don Carlos, badly drawn, 
false in tone, and bearing little resemblance. As to the famous 
portrait of Monsieur Thiers, I saw it to-day for the first time, 
not having seen it at the Salon, but I am sure it has darkened. 

I prefer Carolus Duran for life, and Bonnat for skill. 

Bonnat's hands are wonders. 

Thursday, May gth. — I might have a ravishing hand if the 
fingers were not infamously spoiled by string instruments, and 
if I had not bitten my nails. But the celestial instruments 
would not hurt if I had proper nails. 

My body like that of an antique goddess; my hips, too Span- 
ish, perhaps; my bust small and perfect in shape; my feet, my 
hands, and my childlike countenance — of what use are they 
when no one loves me? 

My poor Pincio and that poor Walitzky — I have thought of 
them to-day. 

Saturday, May nth. — Myself, Schaeppi, and Aunt Marie, 
went to the Exposition to see the paintings, and admired Don 
Carlos, who is the most magnificent and most royal-looking 
man I have ever seen. He surpasses in distinction our grand 
dukes and our Emperor. 

Dress him how we wish, place him wherever we may, every- 
body would ask: " Who is that man?" 

It is not possible to deny race, and when people of rank are 
ugly, or have no style, believe me, there is something queer in 
their origin. 

It is impossible to appear more kingly, eminent, and easy 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 379 

than Don Carlos. Were that man ordinarily intelligent, he 
. would be irresistible. He is not entirely stupid, but drowsy. 

Sunday, May \2th.—\ have painted my first picture of 
inanimate nature — a blue porcelain vase with a bunch of vio- 
lets and a tattered, red book beside it, on a No. 3 canvas. By 
that means, I will not cease to draw, and shall accustom myself 
to colors by devoting to them two or three hours on Sunday. 
Every Sunday I shall do something or other. 

Yesterday, I was abusive to my mother. Then I entered my 
little parlor, where it was dark, and falling on my knees, I 
swore before God that I would never again answer my mother 
crossly, and when she exasperates me, that I will be silent or 
go away. 

She is very ill. Misfortune comes fast, and I would never 
forgive myself for any unkindness I may have shown her. 

Monday, May 13M. — For the afternoon places, lots were 
drawn, and I won the first choice; but, as I had not yet arrived, 
the one next to me took the place. 

When I arrived, Breslau said to me that I must place myself 
after all the others, having lost my place. This had never, 
never, been done, the place was always left for the absent one, 
and the others placed themselves accordingly; but anyone who 
was absent was never forced to take the last choice, although 
this was the rule. I appealed to Monsieur Julian, who answered 
that the rule existed, but that it had never been enforced, and 
that he thought it frightful that they should treat me so. I 
went away furious, but returned, remembering that my absence 
would be much too pleasing to a lot of jealous imbeciles. 

The Spaniard attempted to calm me, as I threatened to leave 
the studio; the maid came with consolations, and I answered 
that they need have no uneasiness, that I would certainly 
work, and that I would be very stupid to lose my time, since 
they would be so delighted. It still wanted twenty-five min- 
utes to the hour — they had succeeded in making me lose an 
hour or two — but those twenty-five minutes I employed in 



380 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

calming myself that I might sketch well and enrage those 
wretches who, through jealousy, had recourse to such paltry 
tricks. Those twenty-five minutes I employed in treating 
them like negroes. 

Thursday \ May 16th. — While I was making preparations to 
paint my death-head — having, according to my character, pre- 
viously proclaimed this project — Breslau painted one during 
the week. That will teach me to gossip less. This caused 
me to say, when conversing with the others, that truly my 
ideas must be worth something, since imbeciles were found 
who picked up the worst and most neglected. 

Friday, May 17th. — I would like to become a Communist, if 
only to blow up all the houses in which families live together! 

We should love our home; there is nothing sweeter than to 
rest in it, to dream in it of things we have done, of persons 
we have seen — but to rest eternally! 

The day from 8 to 6 passes, one way or another, in working; 
but the evening! 

I shall model in the evening — that I may not think that I 
am young, and that time passes, that I am lonely, that I revolt, 
that it is terrible! 

How queer it is, however, that there are persons who have 
no luck, either in love or in business. In love, it was my fault; 
I would excite myself for some and abandon the others; but 
in business — 

I will now go, weep, and pray God, that He may arrange this 
affair. It is very original to converse with God, but it does 
not make Him treat me any better. 

But others do not know how to ask. I have faith; I 
beseech. 

I am undoubtedly undeserving. 

I believe I shall die soon. 

Thursday, May 23d. — I have commenced to paint at the 
studio — two oranges and a knife. Since my rupture with 
Breslau, I am polite to the Spaniard, who is the most obliging 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 381 

creature in the world. She takes infinite trouble for me — 
arranges my painting materials, and gives me advice. 

I can not work as well in the spring as I do in the winter. 

Saturday, May 25/^.—" So things are not going on very 
well with you," said Robert-Fleury to me. 

I felt it myself, and if he had not encouraged me by prais- 
ing my efforts at painting, I would have fallen from the height 
of my hopes, which would be a serious matter. 

We went to the Fran^ais to see u Les Fourchambaults." 
The piece was much admired, but I am not crazy over it. 

I wore a hat — but that interests me no longer — what I want 
is to look distingue, I had somewhat forgotten it lately. 

Decidedly, I shall be a great artist. Each time I come out 
of my studies I am driven back by lashings of all sorts. 

Have I not dreamed of political drawing-rooms; of the 
world; of a rich marriage; then again, of politics? 

All this in the moments when I dreamed or hoped of the 
possibility of some arrangement — feminine, human, natural; 
but no, nothing! 

This does not even make me laugh any longer — this con- 
stant, imperturbable, astonishing change of good luck to bad. 

By it I have gained a great coolness, an enormous contempt 
for everything; logic, wisdom, a lot of things in short, which 
compose a character cold, disdainful, insensible, and at the 
same time, restless, abrupt, energetic. As to the sacred fire, it 
is hidden and the vulgar spectators, the profane, do not even 
suspect it. For them I snap my fingers at everything; I have 
no heart; I criticise, I scorn, I deride. 

And all the tender emotions driven back to the depths within 
me, what do they say of this haughty outside? They say nothing 
— they murmur and hide, more deeply offended and grieved. 

I pass my life in saying savage things which please me, and 
which astonish others. This would be well if it did not leave 
a bitter taste, if it were not the fruit of my horrible bad luck in 
all things. 



382 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Thus, when I made the famous ^request of God, the priest 
gave me wine and bread, which I took; then the piece of bread 
without wine, as is customary. And that bread fell from my 
hands twice. I was grieved, but said nothing, hoping that it 
was not a sign of a refusal. 

It seems, however, that it was. 

All this proves that there is my art, to which I must con- 
secrate myself — at intervals I shall undoubtedly forsake it, but 
for a few hours only, after which I shall return to it again 
chastened and wiser. 

Monday \ May 27th. — I arrived at the studio before 7 o'clock, 
and for three sous I breakfasted in a creamery with the Swiss 
girls. I saw the workmen and the street urchins come and 
take their poor chocolate, the same that I took myself. 

" For you to commence by painting inanimate things, Made- 
moiselle, is like ordering a robust man to take exercise by 
handling this" (and Julian began to move his pen-case up and 
down). " Do not yet make the complete figure; but paint 
hands, pieces of the model; in short, there is nothing better 
than that." 

He is perfectly right, therefore I shall paint a foot. 

I breakfasted at the studio; things were brought to me from 
the house, for I calculated that, in going home for breakfast, 
I lost one hour every day; which makes six hours, or one day 
a week — four days a month — forty-eight days a year. 

And I want to devote my evenings to modeling in clay. I 
spoke of it to Julian, who will speak or send word of it to 
Dubois in such a way as to interest him. 

I gave myself four years, and seven months are passed. I 
believe that three years will suffice; therefore, I have still 
remaining two years and five months. 

I shall then be between twenty and twenty-one years old. 

Julian said that in one year I would paint very well, that 
may be, but not well enough. 

"This work is not natural," said he, laughing. " You 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 383 

abandon the world, society, everything in fact! There must 
be an aim, a hidden thought." 

He is not a Southerner for nothing. 

To-day, a case presented itself similar to that of my rupture 
with the Swiss, only I took the place of Breslau, and an old lady 
took mine. 

"Madame," said I to her, aloud, "I am in the right and 
I could keep this place, if it were my habit to quarrel with 
honest people. Take this place, Madame, by the rules of 
courtesy it is yours. I am, thank God, well-bred and have 
nothing in common with certain (forgive the expression) 
animals, who do not know how to behave themselves." 

And as the poor old lady would not accept, I added: 

" Take it, Madame, I give it up not only for your sake, but 
also to glorify myself; I commit this beautiful action because 
I respect myself." 

This is my vengeance, although half humbug. 

Thursday, May 30M. — Generally, the relatives of great men 
do not believe in their genius. At home, they believe too 
much in my value, that is to say, they would not be astonished 
if I painted a picture as large as Medusa's raft, or if I 
received the Legion of Honor. Is it a bad sign? No, I 
hope not. 

Friday, May 31st. — My people went to see a fairy-play at 
Chatelet and I went with them. When you have seen one, you 
have seen them all; it wearied me, and while I mechanically 
looked at the advertisements on the curtain, I was thinking 
that my life was emaciated, faded, and — lost. It is too bad to 
feel such a void, such desolation around us. In fact, I under- 
stand now, I believed myself born to be happy in everything; 
at present, I see that I am unhappy in everything; it is exactly 
the same thing, except that it is all the contrary. From the 
moment I know what to expect it is quite bearable, and it 
causes me grief no longer, since I knew it beforehand. I 
assure you that I say what I think. What is atrocious, is this 



384 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

constant disillusion; to find serpents where you expected to 
see flowers — that is what is horrible, But these shocks have 
moulded me to indifference. I notice nothing that passes 
around me. I do not even put my head out of the coach door 
as I go to the studio. 

I close my eyes or read a newspaper. 

You, perhaps, believe that this resignation is the resignation 
of despair. Well, it is caused by despair, but it is calm and 
sweet, although sad. 

Instead of my life being rose-colored, it is gray — that is all. 
We accept our lot, and then we are tranquil. 

I recognize myself no longer. I have changed completely, 
and it is a permanent change. It seems queer to me; but it 
is none the less true. I do not even want fortune — all that I 
desire are two black frocks a year, clothes that I can wash on 
Sunday for the week, simple food — provided there are no 
onions in it, and that it is fresh and — the means of working. 

No carriages, the omnibus, or on foot; I wear slippers with- 
out heels at the studio. 

Why live, then? Why? ah! forsooth! In the hope of better 
days, and that hope never leaves us. 

All is relative — thus, in comparison to my past torments, 
I enjoy my present happiness as an agreeable event. In the 
month of January, I shall be nineteen years old. Moussia 
will be nineteen years old! It is absurd, impossible! It is 
frightful! 

Once in awhile I feel a desire to dress, to walk, to show 
myself at the opera, at the Bois, at the Salon, at the Exposition. 
But I say to myself immediately: Of what use? And every- 
thing falls back to naught. 

Between each word that I write, I think a million of things; 
I express my thoughts only in shreds. 

What a misfortune for posterity! 

It is not a misfortune for posterity, but it prevents me from 
making myself understood. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 385 

I am jealous of Breslau; she does not sketch at all like a 
woman. Next week I will work so much, that you will see! 
The afternoons shall be devoted to the Exposition, and the 
Salon] but the next week — I want to sketch well, and I will. 

Monday, June $d. — A night without sleep; work from 8 
o'clock, and courses from 2 to 7 o'clock at night; then to the 
Salon, then in search of hotels — 

And this miserable health is of no use! My energy is 
wasted to no purpose! 

I work — -Oh! a fine affair, seven or eight miserable hours a 
day, which have no more effect on me than seven or eight 
minutes. 

We visited a beautiful studio; I trembled with delight as I 
looked at it. The sight alone of a large, well-lighted studio 
makes you believe that you will do beautiful things. 

To-morrow, I will tell you seriously my true opinions, my 
innermost thoughts, which are formed neither by things, nor 
by men. I will even tell it this evening! 

In my heart, my soul, my mind, I am a Republican. 

Let titles be maintained, but let there be an equality before 
the law; all other equality is impossible. Let ancient families 
be respected, and foreign princes honored. Let the arts, and 
all that contributes to luxury and art be protected. 

These dynasties, these ministers who take root, and who rot 
in office, infect the country; this protection of court — there is 
the misfortune, there is the ruin; whilst a chief constantly 
renewed, ministries often swept away, functionaries changed, 
when necessary, that is what makes a country white, rosy, 
and healthy, and, in consequence, capable of everything, if it 
has intelligence, and that is a thing not wanting in the French. 

We reproach the republic with blood, mire, and a thousand 
other things. Bah! look at all beginnings, especially when 
half the people prevent or ruin all,efforts. Many attempts have 
failed. Remember Napoleon and Saint Helena. 

What is there at present? The sterile Monsieur de Chambord, 

25 



386 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

after him the Orleanists — the Orleanists do not amuse me. 
I do not like vile things — bastards. As to the race of Napoleon 
III., that will never come into power again. The republic of 
to-day is the true, the long expected, the final benediction 
of heaven come at last. 

What matter a few free-thinkers who exist under all admin- 
istrations, what matter exaggerations! The country is not a 
salon. 

Let the people of the different parties choose their own 
guests; but the republic is not a party, it is the entire country; 
and the more we come to her the more she will open her 
arms; and when all have come, there will be no outlaws, 
no favorite, no more parties. There will be France. 

For the moment, the republic has too much to do to busy 
itself with individuals. 

The Republicans are accused of having scoundrels in their 
ranks, but what nation has none? 

If the whole of France became legitimist, or imperialist, 
would they then all be pure, all without stain? Good night! 
What I write is almost the ravings of a lunatic, because I 
write too fast. 

Wednesday, June 12th. — To-morrow, I resume my work, so 
neglected since Saturday. I am remorseful and to-morrow 
everything will return to its usual order. The evenings will 
be enough for my own affairs. 

Monsieur Rouher astonished me in many ways. First, by 
his briskness; he, whom I thought grave, slow, decrepid, jumped 
from the carriage, offered his arm, paid for the cab, ascende4 
the porch running — and then by his ideas: " Semi-instruction/' 
said he, "produces absolute negation of all authority." He 
proclaimed the benefits of ignorance (although confessing that 
there were two sides to the question) and pretended that news- 
papers were poison to the public. 

You may well imagine with what curiosity I examined and 
listened to him — the vice-Emperor! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 387 

But I need not give you my opinions here, to begin with, 
because I have not seen him enough, and then because I am 
not disposed to do it to-night. He related many curious 
things to us, and which he is in a position to know perfectly, 
about the attempt of 1867 against our Emperor, and then 
things about the Imperial family, asking me if we knew the 
Prince Imperial. You may well believe that I was orthodox 
with the head of the Bonapartist party. 

I am even astonished at my delicate flattery and my tact. 
Gavini and the baron seemed to approve of me perfectly, 
and Monsieur Rouher, himself, was pleased, but — what damp 
fireworks! 

They spoke of votes, of law, of pamphlets, of faithful sub- 
jects, of traitors, before me. I listened? Oh! by all means. 
It was an open door into paradise for me. 

I said, however, that women should not meddle with any- 
thing, as they do only harm, and they are not serious enough 
to avoid extravagance. _ 

I regret that I am a woman, and Monsieur Rouher regrets 
that he is a man. "Women," said he, "have not the annoy- 
ances and the troubles that we have." 

" Will you permit me to say, Monsieur, that each has an 
equal share of them. But the annoyances of men bring 
them honors, fame, popularity, whilst those of women bring 
them nothing." 

" You then believe, Mademoiselle, that they always bring all 
those things?" 

"I believe, Monsieur, that that depends on the man." 

You must not think that I attacked him like that all at once. 
I remained fully ten minutes in the corner, quite perplexed, 
for the old fox did not seem to be enraptured by his introduc- 
tion to me. 

Do you want to know one thing? 

I am enraptured. 

Now I feel like relating to you all the pretty things that 



388 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I said — but I must not. I will only tell you that I made great 
efforts not to say common-place things and to appear full of 
good sense; the following is a good specimen: 

Gavini said that the Bonapartists were happy in having the 
sympathies of pretty women, bowing to me. 

" Monsieur," I answered, addressing myself to Monsieur 
Rouher, " I do not give my sympathies to your party as a 
woman, I give them to you as an honest man would." 

Saturday, June i$ih. — Just think! Robert-Fleury would say 
nothing to me, so bad was my sketching. Then I showed 
him that of last week, and I received compliments; it makes 
no difference. 

There are days when everything is fatiguing. 

Wednesday, July 3d. — M — came to say good-bye, and as it 
was raining he proposed to accompany us to the Exposition, 

We agreed, but before that, when we were alone, he besought 
me to be kinder to him, etc. 

" You know that I love you foolishly, that I suffer — If you 
knew how terrible it is to see only mocking smiles, and to 
hear only railleries, when we love truly." 

" You excite yourself." 

" Oh, no ! I swear to you I am ready to give you all the proofs 
— devotion the most absolute — fidelity, the patience of a dog, in 
short! say one word, say that you have a little confidence in me. 
Why do you treat me like a buffoon, like a being of an inferior 
race?" 

" I treat you as I do everybody else." 

" Why? since you know that I do not love you like every- 
body else, that I am entirely devoted to you." 

"I am in the habit of inspiring that sentiment." 

" But not as you have in me. Let me believe that your 
sentiments toward me are not those of hatred." 

"Of hatred? Oh, no!" 

"What is frightful for me is indifference." 

"Ah, indeed!" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 389 

" Promise me that you will not forget me during the few 
months that I shall be absent." 

" That is not in my power." 

" Permit me to remind you, from time to time, that I exist 
— perhaps I may amuse you, perhaps I may make you smile? 
Permit me to — to hope that sometimes, rarely, you may send 
me a word, one only." 

" What do you mean?" 

" Oh, without signature, simply this: 'I am well,' and that 
is all, and it will make me happy!" 

" I sign all that I write, and I honor my signature." 

" You grant me permission to write?" 

"I am like the Figaro, I receive letters from anybody and 
everybody." 

"Heavens! If you knew how terrible it is to never obtain 
I one serious word, to be always scoffed at. No, let us speak 
seriously. Do not let it be said that you did not have pity 
upon me at the moment when I leave you! May I hope that 
my unbounded devotion, my attachment, my love (impose 
upon me any conditions, any trials that you wish) may I hope 
that one day you will be more — gentle? that you will not 
laugh?" 

" As to proofs," I said, quite seriously, " there is but one 
that can be given." 

"What is it? I am ready for anything!" 

" Time alone can prove your sincerity." 

" Be it so, then. You shall see." 

" That pleases me much." 

"But tell me, you have confidence in me!" 

" How? I have confidence in you to the point of confiding a 
letter to you, with the certainty that you will not open it." 

" No! no! but absolute confidence." 

"What great words!" 

" And if the sentiment is great also?" said he, softly. 

" I ask but to believe it, these things flatter our vanity. 



390 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And see, I am quite willing to have a little confidence in 
you." 

" Really?" 

" Really." 

That was enough, was it not? We went to the Exposition. 
I was impatient because M — was happy and made love to 
me as if I had accepted him. 



I feel real satisfaction to-night; the love of M — gives me 
absolutely the same impression as that of A — did. You see 
very well that I did not love Pietro! I was not even for a 
moment in love with him! I was very near loving — but you 
know how horrible the disenchantment was. 

You understand very well that I have no intention of mar- 
rying M — . 

"True love is always to be respected," I said to him, "you 
need not be ashamed of it, only do not excite yourself too much." 

" Give me your friendship!" 

" Vain word." 

" Then your—" 

"You are exorbitant." 

" But what shall I say, since you will not let me come to it 
little by little, when I commence by friendship?" 

"A chimera!" 

" Love, then?" 

" You are insane." 

"Why?" 

"Because I execrate you." 

Friday, July $th. — At the Russian Bohemian concert. I did 
not wish to go and leave a bad impression. We were six: My 
aunt, Dina, Etienne, Philippini, M — , and myself. The con- 
cert over, we went to take some ices, and called two of the 
prettiest Bohemians, and two Bohemian children, to whom we 
gave ices and some wine. It was very amusing to talk with 
these young and virtuous girls; they are closely watched. 




JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 391 

Afterward, my aunt took the arm of Etienne, Dina of 
Philippini, and I of the other. We went home on foot, it was 
such a fine evening. M — , calmed somewhat, spoke to me of 
his love — it is always the same thing. I do not love him, 
but his fire warms me; it is what I took for love two years 
ago! 

He spoke well; he even shed tears. As I neared home, I 
laughed less. I was softened by the beautiful night, and by 
his song of love. Ah! but it is good to be loved! There 
is nothing so good in the world as that. Now, I know that 
M — loves me. It is impossible to be deceived in that. And 
if he wanted my money, my disdain would have already rebuffed 
him; and then there is Dina, who is believed to be as rich as I, 
and many other rich girls he might marry. M — is not a 
beggar, and he is a perfect gentleman. He would have found — 
he will find — someone besides me. 

M — is very well-bred. I may have been wrong in forgetting 
my hand in his at the moment of our parting. He kissed 
my hand. I certainly owed him that. And then, he loves and 
respects me so much, poor man! I questioned him like a 
child. I wanted to know how it had happened to him, and when? 
It seems he loved me at first sight. " But it is a strange love," 
said he; "the others are women; you are above humanity, it is 
an odd sentiment; I know that you treat me like a hunchback 
buffoon — that you have no kindness, no heart, and still I love 
you. And I — I have, so to speak, no sympathy for you, 
while adoring you." 

I still listened; for, to tell you the truth, words of love are 
worth all the plays in the world, excepting those to which we 
go to show ourselves. But then, the theatre is a sort of 
melody of loving manifestations; you are looked at, you are 
admired, and you bloom like a flower in the sun, 

Soden, Sunday ■, July >}th. — At 7 o'clock, we left Paris. Grand- 
papa wanted me to remain; but I said good-bye to him; then, 
he embraced me, and suddenly he began to weep, his nose puck- 



392 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ered, his mouth open, and his eyes shut, like a child! Before 
his sickness, this was nothing, but now I adore him. If you 
knew how much he is interested in the smallest things, how 
much he loves us all, since he has been in that frightful state. 
Another instant and I should have remained. What folly to be 
so sensitive always! Imagine to yourself, a being transported 
from Paris to Soden. Silence of death expresses but feebly the 
calm that reigns in Soden. It makes me as dizzy as I would 
be in the midst of great confusion. 

Here, then, will be time to meditate and to write. 

Doctor Tilenius has just left us. He put the necessary 
questions concerning my illness and did not say, like the 
French doctors: 

" Good, it will be nothing; in a week we will cure you, 
Mademoiselle. " 

To-morrow, I commence the cure. 

The trees are beautiful here, the air is pure. The country 
suits my complexion. In Paris, I am only pretty — if I am 
even that; here, I appear sweet, poetic; my eyes are larger, 
and my cheeks thinner. 

Soden, Tuesday, July gth. — The doctors all weary me! I had 
my throat examined — pharyngitis, laryngitis, and catarrh. Only 
that! 

I amuse myself by reading Livy and taking notes at night. 
I intend to do this every evening. I must read Roman 
history. 

Tuesday, July 16th. — I want to attain fame by painting or 
anything else. Do not think, however, that I apply myself to art 
merely through vanity. There are probably very few persons 
as artistic as I in everything. You have, no doubt, already 
perceived it; you, who are the intelligent part of my readers; 
I sneer at the others. The others will look upon me only as 
extravagant because, without meaning to be so, I am peculiar 
in all things. 

Doctor Tomachewsky, who is the St. Petersburg opera 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 393 

doctor, ought to know something; however, his advice 
agrees with Doctor Fauvel and others, and then I know, 
myself, that the waters of Soden, from their chemical compo- 
sition, can scarcely have any effect on my disease. If you are 
not ignoramuses, you must know that only convalescents and 
consumptives are sent to Soden. 

Yesterday, at 6 o'clock in the morning, my aunt and I, accom- 
panied by Doctor Tomachewsky, went to Ems, to consult the 
doctors there. 

The Empress Eugenie is at Ems. Poor woman! 

Thursday, August ist. — I disguised myself as an old German 
woman, odd-looking and eccentric, and as the appearance of 
each new face is a curiosity to the frequenters of the Kurhaus, I 
made a sensation. Only I committed the imprudence of not 
asking anything from the waiter, which awakened suspicion. 
I was followed, pursued, and found out. 

I assure you it is sad to make twenty-five persons burst 
with laughter, and not to amuse yourself. 

Friday, August 2d. — I have been thinking of Nice, these last 
few days. I was fifteen years old, and how pretty I w r as! My 
form, my feet, my hands, were not perhaps fully formed, but 
my face was ravishing. Since then, it has never been so. On 
my return from Rome, Count Laurenti almost created a scene. 

" Your face has changed," he said to me, " the features, the 
color are as they were before; but it is no longer the same 
thing. You will never again be as you are in that portrait." 

He spoke of that portrait, in which my elbows are on the 
table, and my cheek resting on my hands. * " In that, you seem 
to have achieved your task, to be resting, your eyes fixed 
on the future, and to be asking yourself in a half-frightened 
way: ' Is this life?' " 

At fifteen, there was a childlike expression on my face; 
something that I had, neither before fifteen, nor after. And 
that expression is the most captivating in the world. 

* See Frontispiece. 



394 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I have discovered some walks in Soden. I do not speak of 
the vulgar promenades, where each stranger believes him- 
self obliged to walk; but paths and woods where there is no 
one. 

I love this calm. Either Paris, or else the desert. I do not 
speak of Rome; that would make me weep at once. 

Old Livy is such a good historian, and when, in certain pas- 
sages, we feel that he disguises a defeat, or excuses a humilia- 
tion — it is almost touching. Understand me, until now I have 
never loved but Rome. 

Imagine my pleasure when I listen to the ladies here con- 
versing about their nerves, their acquaintances, their doctors, 
their dresses, and their children! But I isolate myself. I go 
into the woods. I close my eyes, and I am where I wish 
to be. 

Tuesday, August 6th. — My hat amuses me and amuses Soden. 
I bought, from the woman who dispenses the water at the 
spring, a blue woolen stocking she had just commenced; at the 
same time she showed me how it was made. I seized at once 
the theory and the stocking. I installed myself with Madame 
Dutine, opposite the windows of the hotel, knitting the stock- 
ing, while my aunt and the rest went — I know not where. 

My mien changed; I became calm, very tranquil, sweet. I 
became Germanized; I knitted a stocking — a stocking that will 
last forever, for I do not know how to make the heel. I could 
never make it, and the stocking will be long, long, long. 



It will not even be long. 

It rains very hard. I am infinitely intelligent! Sweet 
Germany! 

My walks are useful. I read and do not lose my time. Sages, 
glorify me! 

Wednesday, August jt/i. — Oh, God! allow me to go to Rome! 
If you knew, my God, how much I want to go! Oh, God! 
overpower with kindness your unworthy creature! Oh, God! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 395 

allow me to go to Rome — It is impossible, no doubt, for it 
would be happiness! 

It is not Livy that excites me, for my old friend has been 
neglected for several days. 

No, nothing but the recollection of the Campagna, of the 
Plaza del Popolo, of the Pincio, and the dome of St. Peter's 
in the setting sun. 

And that divine, that adorable twilight of morning, when 
the sun rises, and we begin to. distinguish objects little by little. 
What void everywhere else! And what holy emotion at the 
recollection of this miraculous, fascinating city! I believe I 
am not the only one, and that it inspires in everyone inexplic- 
able sentiments, which come from some mysterious influence — 
some combination of — of the fabulous past with the sanctified 
present, or else — I do not know how to say it. If I loved a man, 
I should want to conduct him to Rome, to tell it to him in view 
of the sun, setting behind the divine dome. 

If I were stricken with some immense misfortune, I would 
go there to weep and pray, my eyes fixed on that dome. If I 
became the happiest mortal on earth, it is also there I would go. 

What crushing vulgarity to think we live in Paris, which is, 
nevertheless, the only city in the world possible after Rome! 

Paris, Saturday, August ijta. — We were still at Soden this 
morning. 

I promised to bow down to the ground five hundred times, if 
I found grandpapa living. I executed my promise. Pie is not 
dead, but still scarcely alive. All the same — there is my Ems 
cure done for. 

I detest Paris! One may be more happy, contented, and 
satisfied here than anywhere else. That life in Paris may be 
complete, intelligent, glorious, I am far from denying. But, 
for the existence that I lead, one must love the city itself. 
Cities, like persons, are to me sympathetic or antipathetic, and 
Paris can not please me whatever I may do. 

Monday, August igth. — Mademoiselle E — , who was govern- 



396 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ess for Madame Anitskoff, is now with us; she will be a sort of 
governess to me. 

I will show a great respect for her in public to impose on 
others, for she is not imposing; small, reddish, young, sad. 
A round face, which looks like the moon. That stamp of 
physiognomy is absurd. 

Eyes, with a comical, dreamy look; but a hat after my own 
ideas. She will do, and I shall go to the studio with her. 

I console myself about Ems in seeing how happy grandpapa 
is to see me again, although he is dying. 



I have a terrible disease. / am disgusted with myself. It is 
not the first time that I detest myself, but it is none the less 
terrible. 

To detest another whom you can evade, is one thing; but 
to detest yourself, that is torture. 

Saturday, August 24th. — It took me an hour to make an out- 
line of grandpapa in bed. It is on a No. 3 canvas. They say it 
is a success. Only you know those white pillows, that white 
shirt, the white hair, and the half-closed eyes are difficult to 
depict. 

Of course, it was only the head and shoulders. I am glad 
to have this souvenir. 

Day after to-morrow I am going to the studio; to lessen 
my impatience, I cleaned my boxes, arranged the colors, and 
sharpened the pencils. During this week I have done all my 
running about. 

Thursday, August 29th. — I do not know by what good chance 
I was late, and at 9 o'clock I was not yet dressed, when they 
came to tell me grandpapa was very much worse. I dressed 
and went in to see him several times. Mamma, my aunt, 
and Dina, wept. Monsieur G — was walking about the room. 
I said nothing to him, there was no time to lecture him during 
these awful moments. At 10 o'clock the priest arrived, and 
ten minutes later all was over. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 397 

I remained there until the end, kneeling, now passing my 
hand on his poor brow, then feeling his pulse. I saw him die — 
poor dear grandpapa — after so much suffering. I do not like 
to repeat common-places. During the service which took place 
at the bedside, mamma fell in my arms, and had to be carried 
to her room and placed in bed. Everybody wept aloud, even 
Nicolas; I wept also, but quietly. He had been laid on his 
bed, badly arranged. Those servants are abominable. They pro- 
ceed with a zeal which is not always admirable. I fixed the 
pillows myself, putting on a covering of cambric, edged with 
lace. I draped a shawl around the bed which he loved — an iron 
bed- — and which would appear poor to others. All around 
white muslin — that whiteness is appropriate for the integrity 
of the soul which has flown, and the purity of the heart 
which beats no longer. I touched his brow when it was quite 
cold, and I felt no fear nor disgust. 

We expected the blow, but we were, nevertheless, overcome. 

I directed all the dispatches and letters announcing his 
death. But care had also to be given to mamma, who had a 
violent nervous attack. I think I behaved exceedingly well, 
and although I did not weep aloud, my heart is not worse 
than the others. 

I can not distinguish my dreams from my real sentiments. 

We had to go in search of mourning, etc. My family would 
think it dreadful not to wear exterior mourning; not under- 
standing the mourning of the soul, and thinking that the more 
crape you wear the better mother, daughter, inconsolable 
widow, you are. 

The atmosphere is laden with a frightful mixture of flowers, 
earth, and incense. It is warm and they have closed the blinds. 

At 2 o'clock I began to paint the portrait of the poor dead, 
but the sun came into the room at 4 o'clock and it had to be 
interrupted; it will be but an outline. 

I do not know how I should act; but I try instinctively 
to observe the rules of etiquette, while keeping up a good heart. 



398 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

At every instant I open this book to register some event. 

Friday, August 30th. — Real life is a detestable and weari- 
some dream — yet how happy I could be with only a little 
happiness. I possess in a supreme degree the art of making 
much out of nothing, and then nothing which affects others 
affects me. 

Sunday, September ist. — And I see nothing — nothing but 
painting. Should I become a great artist, it would be a 
divine compensation. I would have the right to have senti- 
ments, opinions, and I would not scorn myself for writing all 
those miseries! I would be something — I — I could be happy in 
being nothing, if I were loved by a man who would be my 
glory. But now, I must be something through my own efforts. 

Wednesday, September 4th. — Kant pretends that things exist 
only through our own imagination. That is going too far; 
but I admit his system in the domain of sentiment. In fact, 
our sentiments are produced by the impression made upon us 
by persons or things; and since Kant says that objects are not 
such, or such, that in a word they have no objective value, and 
no reality, except in our mind, why — But to follow out this 
line of thought, I ought not to be in a hurry to go to bed, nor 
to have to think of the hour I must commence drawing to 
finish for Saturday. 

Ordinarily, imagination is considered to be something differ- 
ent irom what I think it; people use the word imagination to 
express folly and stupidity; but can love exist otherwise than 
in the imagination? It is thus with all other sentiments. This 
philosophical scaffolding is certainly admirable, but a simple 
woman like me can demonstrate its falsity. 

Things have a reality only in our mind! Well, and I — I say 
to you that the object strikes the sight, and sound the hear- 
ing, and that these (let us say things) determine everything — 
otherwise nothing would need to exist, we would invent every- 
thing. If, in this world nothing exists, where then, does any- 
thing exist? For, to affirm that nothing exists, we must have 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 399 

knowledge of the real existence of something or other, no 
matter where, were it only to demonstrate the difference 
between objective and imaginary values. Indeed — inhabitants 
of another planet, perhaps, see otherwise than we do, and in 
that case we are right; but we are on the earth, let us remain 
on it, and study what is above or under, and that is quite 
enough. 

I become enthusiastic for these learned, patient, extraor- 
dinary, tremendous follies — these reasonings, these deductions, 
so concise, so learned. There is but one thing which grieves 
me, and that is, I feel them to be false, and I have not the 
time nor the inclination to find out why. 

I should like to converse about it with someone. I am all 
alone; but I assure you that what I advance is not intended 
to impose on people. I candidly give my ideas and I would 
willingly accept all the good arguments that anyone else could 
make. 

I long, without making myself ridiculous by too much pre- 
tension — I long to listen to the discourse of learned men. I 
want so much, so much,-to penetrate into the learned world; 
to see, to hear, to learn — but I know not to whom, nor how to 
ask it, and I remain here stupid, amazed, not knowing what 
direction to take, and catching glimpses on all sides of treas- 
ures of interest — histories, languages, science, all the world, in 
fact. I want to see all together and to know all, to learn 
all! 

Friday, September \$th. — I am misplaced. I spend in futili- 
ties what would have made a man famous. I make learned dis- 
courses in answer to domestic quarrels and absolute trifles. I 
am nothing, and what might have been good qualities are, for 
the greater part of the time, useless or displaced. 

There are great statues which are admirable on a pedestal, 
in the center of a large space; but place them in your room, 
and you will see how stupid and cumbersome they are! You 
will knock your head and elbows ten times a day, and will 



400 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

end by cursing, and find insupportable what would be the 
admiration of all, if well-placed. 

If you find that " statue " is too flattering for me, I should 
like it as well if it were — anything you wish. 

Saturday, September 21st. — I have received compliments and 
encouragement. Breslau, who has returned from the sea, 
has brought back studies of peasant women, heads of fisher- 
men. 

They were exquisite in coloring, and poor A — , who had con- 
soled herself by saying that Breslau knew nothing of color, 
made a wry face. Breslau will be a great artist, a truly great 
artist, and if you knew how severely I judge and how I scorn 
the pretensions of females, and their adoration for R — , because 
it seems he is handsome, you would understand that I do not 
go into raptures for nothing. Moreover, when you read this, 
the prediction will be accomplished. I must make an effort to 
sketch from memory, otherwise I shall never know how to 
compose. Breslau always makes outlines, rough sketches, and 
a lot of things. She made them for two years before coming 
to the studio, where she now is. She entered about the month 
of June, 1876, at the time when I was wasting myself in Rus- 
sia — misery! 

Monday, September 23d. — Julian came to tell me that Mon- 
sieur Robert-Fleury is much pleased with me, and, in short, he 
thinks that I do astonishing things for the short time I have 
been at work, and he has great hopes that I will do him honor. 

It is stupid to write every day when you have nothing to 
say. I have bought, in the Russian section, a wolf for a rug, 
which frightens Pincio II. horribly. 

Shall I really become an artist? The fact is that, outside of 
the studio, I do nothing but study Roman history in engrav- 
ings, notes, geographical maps, texts, translations. 

All that is so stupid, nobody cares for it, and my conversa- 
tion would be more brilliant if I read things of recent date. 
Who cares for the first institutions, the number of citizens 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 401 

under Tullus Hostilius, the sacred rites of Numa, the strug- 
gles of the tribunes, and the consuls? 

The great history of Duruy, which appears in numbers, is a 
treasure. 



When I have finished Livy, I shall read the " History of 
France," by Michelet, and then the Greek authors whom I 
know only by hearsay and through quotations from other 
books, and then — my books are in boxes and we must be in 
more permanent lodgings before I unpack them. 

I have read Aristophanes, Plutarch, Herodotus, Xenophon a 
little, and I believe that is all. Also Epictetus; but not care- 
fully, and I am well acquainted with Homer and slightly with 
Plato. 

Friday, September 27th. — Everywhere and often the wrongs 
of men and of women are discussed, and we do the best we 
can to prove that it is the one or the other side which is the 
most culpable. Must I, then, interfere to enlighten the poor 
citizens of the earth? 

Man, having in a certain sense the initiative in almost every- 
thing, should be regarded as the most culpable, without being, 
on that account, more wicked than the woman, who, being in a 
certain sense a passive being, escapes a certain responsibility, 
without being on that account better than the man. 

Saturday, September 28t/i. — Robert-Fleury was again pleased 
with me, and asked me if I had done any painting. 

" No, Monsieur." 

" Ah, Mademoiselle, that is not well. You know it was 
agreed upon that you should. You are really guilty, if you do 
not work constantly.". 

And if you knew how sparing he is in his praises, a not bad 
is quite a strong approval, and I have had: Good, well, very 
well. 

Monday, September 30/& — I have done my first official paint' 

ing, 

33 



402 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

It was to be a picture of still life; so I painted, as you 
know, a blue vase and two oranges — and then the foot of a 
man, and that is all. 

I have given up sketching plaster casts, and I hope I shall 
soon paint from life. 

I wrote to Colignon that I wished I were a man. I know 
that I should become somebody; but with skirts — what can one 
do? Marriage is the only career for women; man has thirty- 
six chances, woman has but one, the zero like the Bank. But 
the Bank gains in any case; we pretend that it is the same 
with woman; but that is not true. How, then, can you expect 
that we will not be exceedingly cautious in choosing a husband? 
Never have I rebelled so much against the condition of woman. 
I am not foolish enough to claim that stupid equality, which is 
an Utopia (and then, besides, it is bad form) because there can 
not be equality between two beings so different, as man and 
woman. I ask nothing, because woman has already all that 
she should have; but I grumble at being a woman, because I 
happen to be one only as far as outward appearance goes. 

Thursday \ October 3d. — To-day, we spent nearly four hours at 
a dramatic, musical, international matinee. Fragments from 
Aristophanes were given in frightful costumes, and, besides, 
so much abridged, arranged, and altered, that the effect was 
hideous. 

There was one thing which was superb — a dramatic recital, 
" Christopher Columbus,' 5 by Rossi, in Italian. What a voice! 
what intonation! what expression! what ease! It was better 
than music. I believe it would have been admirable even if 
we had not understood Italian. 

While I listened, I almost adored him. 

Ah, how powerful are spoken words, even when they are not 
our own, but another's committed to memory! The handsome 
Mounet-Sully recited afterward — but I will not speak of him. 
Rossi is a great artist — he has the soul of an artist. I saw him 
at the door of the theatre speaking with two other men, and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 403 

he has a common look. He is an actor, it is true; but such a 
great actor should exhibit a certain grandeur of character, 
even in everyday life. I looked at his eyes; they are not 
those of an ordinary man, but the charm exists only while he 
speaks. Oh, then it is wonderful! And Nihilists sneer at art! 

What a frightful existence! If I were intelligent, I should 
know how to extricate myself and change it all; but my 
intelligence must be taken for granted, and, furthermore, you 
have only my own word for it. 

When have I proved it? In what way have I shown my 
intelligence? 

Saturday, October $th. — This is the day that Robert-Fleury 
corrects at the studio. Well, I had a terrible fright. He said: 
Oh! Oh! Ah! Ah! Oh! Oh! in several different tones, and 
then — 

" You are painting?" 

" Not altogether, Monsieur. I paint only once a month." 

a You are right to make a beginning. You can paint; and 
there is some good, there is some good." 

" I feared I was not far enough advanced to paint." 

"Not at all. You are far enough advanced; continue, it is 
; not bad, etc." 

And, after that, a long lesson, which proves that I am not 
without hope, as we say at the studio. I am not liked at the 
, studio, and at each unfortunate success, B — looks at me so 
\ furiously that it is laughable. 

But Robert-Fleury does not believe that I never took paint- 
i ing lessons. 

He remained a long time, correcting, conversing, and 
j smoking, as if he were Carolus. 

I received considerable extra advice, and then he asked how 
I was placed in the last competition of last year. And when I 
said second — 

"And this year," he said, " it must — " 

Hum? 



404 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

It is so stupid, he has already told Julian that he thought I 
would have a medal. 

At last, without any drawbacks, I am authorized to paint 
from nature, without having painted from inanimate nature. 
I skip it as I have skipped the casts. 

Monday, October >]th. — Idiots will say that I want to be con- 
sidered a second Balzac; no, but do you know why he is so 
great? Because he pours on paper all that he conceives in his 
mind, quite naturally, without fear, without affectation. Nearly 
all intelligent persons have thought what he has thought, but 
who has been able to express it like him? 

No, it is not true that nearly all intelligent persons have had 
the same thoughts; but, in reading Balzac, one is so forcibly 
struck by his truth, his naturalness, that one thinks one has. It 
has happened to me a hundred times, when conversing or 
reflecting, to be horribly tormented by ideas which I did not 
have the power to disentangle from the frightful chaos of 
my mind. 

I have also another pretension; it is this: When I say some- 
thing good, or make a very witty observation, it seems to me 
that I am not understood. 

Perhaps, really, I am not understood as I wish to be 
understood. 

Good-night, good people! 

Robert-Fleury and Julian are building enormous hopes on 
my future; they care for me as they would for a horse which 
had a chance to win the grand prix. Julian, by gestures, says 
all this will spoil me; but I assured him that all this encourages 
me enormously; which is the truth. 

Wednesday, October gth. — The success obtained at the Beaux- 
Arts competition, by Julian's pupils, placed his studio on a good 
footing. 

There are more pupils than are needed. Each one expects 
to obtain the prix de Rome; or, at least, to compete at the 
school. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 405 

The women's studio participates in the splendor, and Robert- 
Fleury is a rival of Lefebvre and Boulanger. To every- 
thing, Julian says: "What will they say down-stairs?" or, "I 
would like to show this to the gentlemen down-stairs." 

I have sighed very much for the honor of seeing one of my 
drawings taken down. We take drawings down to them only 
to boast or to enrage them, because they say that women can 
not do serious work. I have thought for some time of having 
the honor of being taken down. 

Well, to-day, Julian came in, and having examined my 
academy figure, spoke thus: 

" Finish this well, and I will take it down-stairs." 

Saturday \ October 12th. — My academy figure was found to be 
very well, very well, very well. 

"Ah! you have much talent, and if you work, you can do 
what you please." 

I am surfeited with praise (I say surfeited for form's sake) 
and the proof that R — does not lie, is that they envy me 
on all sides, and it is stupid; but it grieves me. There must 
be something, when they tell me such things every time; espe- 
cially, when he who says it is a man as serious and as con- 
scientious as R — . 

As to Julian, he adds that if I knew all they say of me, it 
would turn my head. 

" It would make you tipsy, Mademoiselle Marie," said the 
maid. 

I always fear that my readers will think that people flatter 
me because I am rich. That has nothing to do with it. I do 
not pay more than others, and the others have protectors, 
friends, and relations among the professors. Moreover, by the 
time you read this, there will no longer be any doubt of 
my merits. Ah! I must indeed find compensation in that 
way. 

It is good to see the respect accorded you for your personal 
merits. 



40G JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

R — commences to act like Carolus again; he comes, 
he goes (he received a grand medal at the Universal Exposi- 
tion). After correcting he converses, he lights a cigarette, he 
throws himself into an arm-chair. It is all the same to me. I 
know that he adores me as a pupil — Julian also. 

The other day the Swiss girl gave me advice, and then 
Julian called me into his study and told me to follow my own 
ideas; that the painting might be weak at first, but that 
it would be me\ u while, if you listen to others, I answer for 
nothing." 

He wants me to try sculpture and he will ask Dubois to give 
me advice. 

For the first time in Paris, I went out with pleasure. I was 
well dressed, well bonneted, neat. I took my time and did 
not hurry myself. Dina remained with mamma and I had the 
place of honor. 

Turning my back to the horses is a torture for me, rather 
than a pleasant drive. Every Saturday I will do like this. It 
is so stupid to go to the Bois, no matter how. To-day I 
enjoyed myself; I had success — everybody looked at me. 

A mourning dress, a felt hat with feathers, everything per- 
fect. 

Monday, October i^th. — " It is crowded down-stairs," said 
Julian, "I will take down your academy figure, give it to me." 
1 know these are little things, but they are all the same very 
agreeable. 

Wednesday, October i6t/i. — It is stupid; but the envy of those 
women grieves me; it is so little, so vile, so base! I never 
knew how to envy. I regret that I am not what others are. 

I bow before superiority. It vexes me; but I bow down 
whilst these creatures do just the opposite with their pre- 
arranged conversations, their mysterious smiles when speaking 
of someone with whom the professor is satisfied, and their 
words addressed to me in speaking of another, by which they 
demonstrate that studio successes mean nothing. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 407 

They have at last arrived at the conclusion that competi- 
tions are stupid — more especially as Lefebvre has bad taste 
and likes only sketches stupidly copied from nature, and as 
Robert-Fleury is not a colorist. 

Briefly, the ^masters are incapable, notwithstanding their 
celebrity, and it was the Spaniard, Breslau, and Noggren who 
judged them so. I am of their opinion when they say that 
studio glories are nothing, for here are at least two or three 
who will remain deplorable mediocrities, while passing for art- 
ists of the first order among the other students. 

The pupils do not like me at all, but the masters are satisfied 
with me. 

It is so amusing to hear these women say the contrary of 
what they said ten months ago, when they were sure of obtain- 
ing the medal first. It is amusing because it is one of those 
old, old comedies played all over the world, but it tells on my 
nerves. Is it, perhaps, after all, because I have an honest 
nature? 

These studio miseries weary and annoy me in spite of my 
own good sense. The truth is, I am very impatient to surpass 
the rest. 

Sunday, October 20th. — I ordered the carriage at 9 o'clock 
and, accompanied by my maid of honor, Mademoiselle Elsnitz, 
I went to visit St. Philippe's, the church of Saint Thomas, 
Aquinas, and Notre Dame. I went up to the top and exam- 
ined the bells as an English woman might have done. Well, 
there is an adorable Paris, old Paris, and I can be happy in it; 
but on the condition that I avoid the boulevards and the 
Champs Elysees, all the new, the beautiful quarters; in fact, 
what I execrate, what irritates my nerves. But over there in 
the Faubourg Saint Germain, I feel quite different. 

Afterward we went to the Ecole des Beaux-Arts. It is enough 
to make one cry with rage. 

Why can not I go and study there? Where can I get 
instructions as complete as there? I went to see the Exposition 



408 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

of the Prix de Rome. The second prize was won by a pupil of 
Julian's studio. Julian is very fortunate. If ever I am rich, 
I will found an art school for women. 

Saturday, October 26th. — My painting is much better and 
my academy figure very good. Monsieur X — judged the 
competition: First, Breslau; second, I. In short, I ought to 
be satisfied. 

This morning, as Robert-Fleury was speaking to me, in 
private, of cartoons for my sculpture, I listened like a baby, 
with the air of a silly little girl, my cheeks changing color, 
and my hands embarrassed. He could not help smiling while 
talking, and I also, for I thought that I smelled fresh violets, 
that my naturally waving hair, dry and light, was deliciously 
lighted up and that my hands, holding I know not what, took 
pleasing poses. 

Breslau says that the way in which my hands touch objects 
is beautiful, although my hands in themselves are not classic- 
ally beautiful. 

But one must be an artist to appreciate such a thing as that, 
the vulgar, or people of the world, pay no attention to the way 
we grasp objects, and would prefer plump or even fat hands 
to mine. 

Between 10 and n o'clock, I had time to read five news- 
papers and two numbers of Duruy. 

I fear that those successes at the studio will impede me. I 
am almost ashamed that everything goes well, and because 
they say to me: Much better or very well. I feel neither the 
difficulties nor the progress; and yet, when they say it to Bres- 
lau, it seems to me that she is a great artist. That should 
reassure me somewhat. 

Sunday, November 3d. — Mamma, Dina, Madame X — , and I 
went out together. They wish to marry me, but I told them 
plainly, in order not to be the means of enriching some gentle- 
man, that I will marry with pleasure, but on condition that 
the gentleman be rich, occupying a fine position and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 409 

handsome, or else a man who is intelligent, remarkable, etc. 
As to his character, he may be Satan, himself; I will manage 
him. 

Madame G — speaks of art in such a trifling manner that 
I will leave the room if she speaks of it again before me. She 
mentions ladies who paint at home, who have professors, and 
says that I can do as much when I am married, and all in that 
indifferent tone of the woman of the world, of the bourgeoise, 
in which there is something so frightfully low and so insulting 
to all the artistic and elevated sentiments. 

You understand I view matters in a sensible and perfectly 
just manner. 

I shall first try to make the marriage of my dreams. If I 
do not succeed, I will marry, like all the world, with the aid of 
my dowry. Now, I am tranquil. 

In marrying we must remember that it is not an apartment 
that we rent by the month, but a house that we buy. We must 
find in it all our comforts, and we can not overlook the want 
of a few rooms, as in rented lodgings; and an old Russian 
proverb says, that " annexes bring misfortune." 

Tuesday, November $th. — There is one old-fashioned idea 
which is truly beautiful: Annihilation of the woman, before 
the superiority of the man she loves, must be the greatest 
enjoyment of self-love that a superior woman can experience. 

Saturday, November gt/i. — A shameful thing, no medal at 
all! This will be a triumph for those imbeciles of women who 
are far advanced, and who did not compete. Nevertheless, I 
am first. I believe I should have been so even if Breslau had 
exhibited. There would then have been two firsts, but this pri- 
vate conviction of mine counts for nothing. The fact is there. 
She did not compete. There is no medal. At heart I do 
not care. Breslau is the only one that I respect; but then 
she has had three years of study at Julian's and two at Zurich. 
Total, almost five years, I discount her illnesses. And I, I 
have had in all, only eleven months; and if you take into 



410 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

consideration my previous attempts, it will add one month. If 
you count the copies of engravings and the six heads painted 
in Rome at different times, all these scrawls make a month's 
study (eight hours a day, I declare it on my honor), six weeks 
at the maximum, therefore we have one year. All this is to 
announce to you, with great pomp, that I sketch academy 
figures as well as Breslau; the masters have told me so. 

Wednesday, November 13th. — Robert-Fleury came this even- 
ing. It would be nonsense to repeat the encouragement he 
gave me after a long lesson. If what these persons say is 
true, you will know (at the time you read this) what to think 
of me. 

Only it pleases me all the same to find that people take me 
altogether in earnest. I am silly — I have the greatest hopes 
of myself, and when they tell me I am right to have them, I 
appear as if I did not know it myself, and I feel transported 
with joy! I am astonished and radiant like a monster who 
knows himself to be loved by the most beautiful of women. 

Robert-Fleury is an excellent professor, he leads you on 
step by step, so that you feel the progress that you make at 
each step. This evening he treated me somewhat like a pupil 
who has learned her scales, and to whom we give a piece to 
play for the first time. He raised the corner of the curtain 
and showed me a more spacious horizon. This night will 
count in my studies. 

Saturday, November 16th. — To-day, Robert-Fleury was 
much pleased with Breslau, and persuaded her to paint some- 
thing for the Salon, adding that she would be received; that he 
would answer for it. This week I had next to me old G — , 
the plague of the studio, a good woman, but foolish and ener- 
vating. 

I have equaled Breslau in drawing; what she has, more than 
I, is practice. Now, I must give myself so many months to 
paint like her, for, if I can not do that, I have no talent what- 
ever. But, during the eight or ten months that I allow myself, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 411 

she will not stand still; I shall, therefore, be forced to pro- 
gress very fast to catch up with her in the eight or ten months 
during which we shall remain together. It seems to me very 
improbable that I shall succeed. But, by the grace of God, we 
shall see. 

Wednesday, November 20th. — This evening, after my bath, I 
became suddenly so pretty that I spent twenty minutes look- 
ing at myself. I am sure if I were seen to-day, I would have 
great success. My complexion was absolutely dazzling, and 
so delicate, so soft, the cheeks scarcely rosy; the only strong 
points of color were the lips, the eye-brows, and the eyes. 

I beseech you do not think me blind when I am looking 
ugly, I see it well I assure you; and this is the first time I 
have looked pretty for a very long time. Painting absorbs 
everything. What is infamous in life, is that all this must fade, 
wither, and die. 

Thursday, November 21st. — Breslau has painted a cheek so 
natural and so true, that I, woman, and rival artist as I am, 
feel a desire to kiss that woman's cheek. 

It must be often thus with things of this life; we should not 
approach them too near, we would soil our lips, and spoil the 
object. 

Robert-Fleury came to the studio this evening; everything 
still goes on very well. 

Friday, November 22d. — The future that awaits Breslau 
frightens me; it makes me gloomy, sad. 

In her pictures there is nothing feminine, common-place, or 
disproportioned. She will be remarked at the Salon, for, 
besides the expression that she will put into her picture, she 
will not choose an ordinary subject. 

I am really foolish to envy her. I am a child in art, and 
she a woman. 

My painting before all; for the moment I am under a cloud 
— all seems dark to me. 

Saturday, November 23d. — Robert-Fleury has again spoken 



412 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

to me " from the point of view of a serious artistic future, the 
future of a talented artist!" I do not quite remember the 
expressions he used, but he spoke of my work in general, and 
Breslau, who was listening, looked at me with that air of con- 
sideration and benevolence, which we put on when we wish to 
hide our jealousy. 

It was not in regard to my head of this week— my painting 
is still so weak, that there is not much to say for it — but it was 
the whole of my studies. What troubles me a little, is that he 
told me not to content myself with the studies at the studio, 
but to make rough sketches, pictures from memory, etc. 

I was started like a machine, and now I must add my own 
efforts, and have a little independence. From the way in which 
he advised and encouraged me to work, I saw I was in his 
good graces, as well as Breslau. You understand that I care 
little for the man, but much for the master, for I repeat it to 
you, without being a wonderful artist, he is a perfect teacher. 

With Breslau and me, he has a peculiar manner of correct- 
ing. 

This evening I went again to see u Les Amants de Verone" 
with Nadine and Paul. We invited Philippini. Capoul and 
Heilbroun sang and acted in an adorable manner. The 
work opens like a flower at the second hearing. I must go 
again. The flower will probably expand more still, and shed a 
perfume altogether charming. There are delicious things in 
the opera, but then it requires patience and delicacy to appre- 
ciate them; the music is not startling, one must search for the 
charm, which is subtle, almost intangible, but which exists 
nevertheless. 

Simday, November 24th. — We visited the museum of antiqui- 
ties, with Nadine. What simplicity and what beauty! 

Ah! Greece will never be repeated! 

Monday, December 16th. — It is freezing and snowing. I 
have peace only when I work, and the hours that remain, 
I employ in reading or sleeping. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 413 

Never, never have I been so undecided, stupefied, discour- 
aged, and skeptical. There is nothing in the world I care for. 

I work exactly like a machine. I need constant study and 
numerous compliments. That will bring me back to my 
dreams of artistic fame, and give me a reason to live. 

Saturday, December 21st. — To-day, nothing good. I can 
not paint. I think it will take more than six months to equal 
Breslau. She will surely be an extraordinary woman, a mix- 
ture, I would say an odd mixture, if oddness were not so 
common in these days. 

I can not paint. 

Now, my child, you believe that Breslau painted better than 
you at the end of two months and a half, but she was painting 
still life or casts. Six months ago, Robert-Fleury was saying 
to her the words he said to me this morning. 

"It is not bad, but the tone is crude and cold. We must 
get out of that, make one or two copies." 

She is not dead at the end of ten months of painting, shall 
I die at the end of two months and a half of it? 

Friday, December 27 th. — This week has been lost to me for 
the studio. For the last three days I have wanted to write 
down certain reflections, I don't know just what. But dis- 
tracted by the singing of the young lady in the second story, I 
began to read over my life in Italy, and then I was disturbed, 
and I lost the thread of my ideas, and that feeling of mel- 
ancholy which it is so pleasant to indulge in. 

What surprises me is to see what grandiloquent words I 
employed to describe simple adventures. 

But my mind was full of lofty sentiments, and I was vexed 
at not having anything astonishing to relate — any tremendous, 
romantic sensations, and I interpreted my sentiments; artists 
will understand me. All that is very well; but how was it 
possible that a girl, who pretended to be intelligent, did not 
better understand the value pf men and events? I say this 
because the thought has come to me that my relatives ought 



414 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

to have enlightened me on such subjects, and told me, for 
instance, that A — was not an earnest man, nor a man for 
whom I should have suffered one moment of pain. It is true 
they spoke to me, but in a wrong way, my mother having even 
less experience of the world than I; but, after all, that is of 
minor importance, and since I had such a high opinion of my 
own intelligence, I should have known better, and treated him 
like the others, instead of bestowing so much attention upon 
him, both in this journal and elsewhere. 

But I burned with impatience to record something romantic, 
and fool that I am! There might have been more romance if 
I had been more patient. In short, I was young and inex- 
perienced, notwithstanding my foolish boasting. I must 
acknowledge that, whatever it costs me to do so. 

There! It seems to me that I hear someone say: A strong- 
minded woman, like you, should never be obliged to retract 
her words. 

Sunday ■, December 29th. — Last night I laid my head down 
on the sofa and slept soundly until 8 o'clock this morning. It 
is amusing to sleep like that outside of your bed. 

Art has lost its hold on me and I can not interest myself in 
anything else. My books are packed up, I am forgetting my 
Latin and my classics, and I seem quite stupid to myself. The 
sight of a temple, of a column, of an Italian landscape makes 
me feel a horror of Paris, so dry, so learned, so experienced, 
so refined. The men here are ugly. This city, which is a 
paradise for superior natures, is nothing to me. Oh! I have 
deceived myself; I am neither wise nor happy. I want to go 
to Italy, to travel, to see mountains, lakes, trees, seas — with 
my family, with bundles, recriminations, tribulations, daily 
little quarrels? Ah, no, a hundred times no! To really enjoy 
the delights of travel, I must wait — and time passes. Well, so 
much the worse! I can always marry an Italian prince when- 
ever I wish; then let me possess my soul in patience. 

But, you see, if I took an Italian prince, I could work, since 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 415 

the money would be mine; but I should have to give him 
some. In the meantime I will remain here, and work at 
painting. 

Saturday, they found my sketch, done in two days, not bad. 
You understand that it is only with an Italian that I could 
live as I wished, and where I wished in France, or in Italy; 
what a beautiful life it would be! I should divide my time 
between Paris and Italy. 



1879. 






Thursday, January 2d. — What I long for, is the liberty to 
ramble alone, to come and go, to seat myself on the benches 
in the garden of the Tuileries, and especially of the Luxem- 
bourg, to stop at the artistic shop-windows, enter the churches, 
the museums, to ramble at night in the old streets, that is what 
I long for, and that is the liberty without which one can not 
become a true artist. Do you believe that we profit by what 
we see when we are accompanied, or when going to the 
Louvre, we must await our carriage, our chaperon, or our 
family? 

Ah! heavens and earth! that is what makes me so angry to 
be a woman! I will dress myself like a woman of the mid- 
dle class, wear a wig, and make myself so ugly that I will be 
as free as a man. There is the liberty that I want and with- 
out which I shall never succeed in being anything. 

One*s thoughts are fettered by this stupid and enervating 
constraint; even if I disguise myself and make myself homely, 
I am but half free, for a woman who roams about is impru- 
dent. And in Italy, in Rome? 

The idea of going in a landau to visit ruins! 

"Where are you going, Marie?" 

" To see the Coliseum." 

" But you have already seen it! Let us go to the theatre or 
take a drive, where there will be a crowd. " 

And that is enough to bind one down to the earth. 

That is one of the great reasons why there are no women 
artists. Oh, sordid ignorance? Oh, savage routine! It is 
horrible to think of it all! 

(416) 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 417 

Even if we said sensible things, we would be assailed by the 
vulgar and ancient ridicule with which the apostles of woman's 
emancipation are overwhelmed. However, I think there is 
certain cause for laughter! 

Women will never be anything but women. But, however, 
if they were brought up in the same manner as men, the 
inequality which I deplore would not exist, and there would 
remain only what is inherent in human nature itself. Ah, well! 
whatever I may say, women will shout and make themselves 
ridiculous (/will leave that to others) in an effort to obtain 
equality some time during the next century. 

I will try to aid the cause by showing myself to society 
as a woman who has become something, notwithstanding all 
the disadvantages with which she is overwhelmed by society, 

Friday, January 10th. — Robert-Fleury came to the studio 
this evening. 

We dined and breakfasted at the English caf£, where the 
food is good; as restaurants go, it is the best. 

The Bonapartist journals, and the Pays in particular, were 
so dismayed over the elections, that I experienced something 
like a sentiment of shame for them, as I did yesterday for 
Massenet when they encored his incantation, which, when 
repeated, was not nearly so fine. 

If painting does not give me fame soon, I shall kill myself, 
and so end it all. I resolved upon that several months ago. 
Even when in Russia, I wanted to kill myself, but I feared 
what comes after this life. I shall kill myself at the age of 
thirty; for, until we are thirty years old, we are still young, 
and we can hope for luck, or happiness, or fame, or — no mat- 
ter what. It is all settled, therefore, and if I am sensible, I 
will torment myself no longer — either now, or in the future. 

I am speaking very seriously and I am really glad to defi- 
nitely settle everything. 

Saturday, January i ith. — At the studio it is thought that I go 
into society a great deal; that, in conjunction with our difference 

27 



418 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

in station, separates me from the others, and does not permit 
me to ask anything of them, as they do of one another, or to go 
to an artist's house or visit a studio. 

I worked honestly all the week until 10 o'clock at night on 
Saturday, then I returned home and wept. Until now I have 
always carried my sorrows to God, but as He has not heard 
me, I believe in Him — very little. 

Those alone who have experienced this feeling can under- 
stand it in all its horror. It is not that I wish to virtuously 
preach religion, but God is something very convenient at 
times. When there is no one to appeal to, when we are at the 
end of our resources, God remains. To pray to God pledges 
you to nothing, troubles no one, and is a supreme consolation. 

Whether He exists or not, we must believe in Him absolutely, 
unless our life is a very happy one. In the latter case, 
we can do without Him. But in all sorrows, in misfortune, 
in all disagreeable things, it were better to die than not to 
believe. 

God is an invention which saves us from absolute despair. 
Imagine, then, what it is when we invoke Him, as our last, our 
only resource, and even as we do so, realize that we do not 
believe in Him! 

Monday, January [Russian New Year). — Well, I am amusing 
myself with folly as usual. The entire Sunday was spent at 
the theatre. A matinee at the Gaiite to see a somewhat sad 
play, and the Opera Comique in the evening — the Pre aux 
Cleres. I passed the night in bathing, writing, reading, lying on 
the floor, and taking tea. 

It is a quarter after 5; I will go to the studio early, and at 
night I will sleep, and to-morrow I will arise early, and then 
things will go on of themselves. Do not think that I love 
these pretty tricks; I have a profound disgust, and a pro- 
found horror of myself. No matter, I met the new year in an 
original manner — on the floor with my dogs. I worked all day. 

Tuesday, January. — I could not awaken until half-past 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 419 

ii o'clock, after that vigil. The competition was judged this 
morning by the three masters in full conclave: Lefebvre, 
Robert-Fleury, and Boulanger.- I reached the studio at i o'clock, 
to learn the result. This time the big ones had competed, 
and the first words they said to me as I came in were: 

"Well, Mademoiselle Marie, come and take your medal! ,, 

In fact, my drawing was hanging on the wall with a pin, and 
bore the w r ord — Prize. This time I should not have been so 
surprised if the skies had fallen. 

You must understand clearly the importance and signification 
of the competition. 

Like all competitions, these are useful; but the prizes are 
not always a just indication of the talents and powers of the 
individuals. For it is undeniable, for example, that Breslau, 
whose painting was placed fifth, is in every way superior to 
Bang, who is placed next the medal. Bang goes piano and 
sano; her work is good and honest carpentry, but it is always 
well placed, because woman's work is in general a thing which 
sins by its softness and fantasy, when it is not altogether 
childish. The model was a youth of eighteen, who, in form 
and color, might be mistaken for a cat's head. Breslau has 
painted pictures which would easily gain the medal, but this 
time she has not been successful; and then, what is most 
appreciated by the judges is neither execution nor charm (for 
the charm has nothing to do with the study, it being in you 
or not in you, and execution is only the complement of other 
more serious qualities) ; but, above all, correctness, energy, and 
truth to nature. 

They make no allowance for difficulties, and they are 
right; thus — a moderately good picture is placed after a really 
good drawing. 

What is it, after all, that we are doing here? We study, 
and it is only from this point of view that these heads are 
judged. Mine is as effective as possible. These gentlemen 
despise us, and it is only when they find strong and even 



420 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

brutal workmanship that they are pleased, for that particular 
vice is rare among women. 

They said of my picture: "It is the work of a boy. It 
has strength. It is nature." 

"I told you that we had a strong fellow up there," said 
Robert-Fleury to Lefebvre. 

"You have the medal, Mademoiselle," said Julian, "and 
you have gained it easily; the judges did not hesitate." 

I ordered a punch, as they always do, and Julian joined us. 
I was much congratulated, for most of them thought that I 
had arrived at the goal of my ambition, and that they would 
be soon rid of me. 

Wick, who gained the medal the time before last, is eighth; 
but I consoled her by repeating that true phrase, which is, 
after all, the most scrupulously exact definition of such things. 
It was Alexander Dumas who said, " that a poor work was no 
proof of lack of talent, whilst a good one was a proof of its 
possession." 

A genius may produce a poor work, but a fool can not pro- 
duce a good one. 

Thursday, January. — With some exceptions, the evening- 
pupils are not the same as the day ones. 

They all congratulated me, and it was a very happy time 
for me. 

Come and receive your medal! The other evening, at 
Madame de M — 's house, I said, in a grave and quiet tone, show- 
ing the medal: "That represents a great deal of courage, 
Madame." 

As a matter of fact, it represents twelve months' work. 
Since the fear which I felt after my meeting with royalty in 
Naples, the most violent sensation of my life has been that 
which I felt to-day in reading u L Homme- femme." 

The admiration I felt for Dumas made me fancy myself, for 
a few moments, madly and passionately in love with this 
man of fifty-five, whom I have never seen. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 421 

I understood Bettina and Goethe. 

Friday, January. — If I were sixteen, I should be the hap- 
piest woman on earth. 

"So, then," said Robert-Fleury, " we have the prize." 

"Yes, Monsieur." 

" It is good, that, and you know that you have deserved 
it." 

"Oh, Monsieur, I am pleased that you should say so! " 

"Yes, richly deserved it; not only for your competitive 
head, but for your general work. You have made very great 
progress, and I am pleased that it should have fallen out 
thus, and that you have gained the medal. It is your just 
reward." 

I blushed and felt awkward in listening, which lessened 
the pleasure of hearing it; but my aunt was there, and trem- 
bled more than I. 

" Mademoiselle Breslau has made a perfect horror," said he 
to the Spaniard, as he w 7 ent out. 

" It was so difficult, Monsieur." 

"Oh, ta, ta, ta! She does not work; she drops in occasion- 
ally, and if she gets no compliments she goes off and disap- 
pears for weeks. However, she has made some studies, 
which — " 

" That head was so difficult, Monsieur," interrupted the 
Spaniard, who would defend the devil, if, at the same time, 
she could find fault with the competition. 

" She does no work." 

" She works at home." 

" She should give her best work for the competition." 

The poor man was vexed before Lefebvre and Boulanger. 

Saturday, January. — I have again excited, sustained, and 
quieted a rebellion in the studio. 

After which I went to tell Julian about it, that the facts 
might not be misrepresented. 

Germs of greatness, germs of science, and germs of talent — 



422 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I very much fear that all these germs may go to make fodder 
for some unknown ass! 

Oh, if I were only a man! But no, I would rather die! 

Wednesday, January. — All day long I dreamed of the blue 
sea, white sails, and a sky full of light. 

Returning from the studio, I found P — . The old mushroom 
said that in a week he was going to Rome, and in talking, he 
spoke of Katarbinskay and others, and I almost swooned 
before this sunny perspective — ancient marbles among the 
trees, ruins, statues, and churches. 

The Campagna! a desert, yes; but an adorable desert, and 
there are others, thank God, who adore it also! 

That divine, artistic atmosphere; that light, which, when I 
think of it, makes me weep with rage to be here! I know 
something of the artists there! 

There are three categories of people. The first love nature, 
they are artists, and do not look on the Campagna as a fright- 
ful desert — cold in winter and brutal in summer. The second, 
who do not understand art, have no feeling for its beauty, but 
dare not confess it, and try to appear like the first. These 
latter do not wholly displease me, because they understand 
that they are naked and wish to be clothed. The third are 
like the second, less this good sentiment. How I execrate 
them, because they disparage and freeze. Feeling and under- 
standing nothing for themselves, they declare that art and 
science are stupidities; and evil, wicked, and disgusting, they 
wallow in the heat of the sun. 

Monday, February $d. — Yesterday, I went to see "L'Assom- 
moir," and I think it very fine; but, before going, from about 4 
o'clock, till night, I tried to sketch. 

I must acquire the habit of work. The others sketch every 
Sunday. They are given a subject and they have to make a 
sketch from memory. 

As for me, I begin at the beginning — " Adam and Eve " on a 
No. 4 canvas. And now I have started, I shall do one every 






JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 423 



evening. If I listen to myself I could not think too much of 
my talent. As a first trial my sketch is excellent. 

I will show it to Julian, with another which I will make. 

Tuesday, February 4^.— This evening the model did not 
come. I posed, and while I was on the table, Julian arrived, 
and we talked politics. 

I love to chat with this clever fellow. I laugh at everybody 
and everything in the studio. I declaim, I orate, I amuse, I 
make political programmes, when I feel gay, and Julian tells 
me: " Go ahead, and with painting, too — with your varied tal- 
ents you may be unique in Paris!" 

He thinks me very spirituelle, intelligent, and sufficiently 
influential to rule a salon, 

Wednesday, February $th. — At last we have been to Ver- 
sailles, the first day of Gambetta's presidency. His speech, 
which he read, was received with enthusiasm, as it would have 
been had it been even worse than it was. Gambetta read it 
badly, with a detestable voice. He is not fit to be Presi- 
dent, and having seen Grevy, one asks, what will this man do? 
To preside over a legislature demands not only talent, but a 
special temperament. 

Grevy presided with a mechanical regularity and precision. 
The first word of his speech was like the last. Gambetta has 
crescendoes, stoppages, additions, and withdrawals; motions 
of the head, up and down. ... In short, either he is 
really very incoherent, or he is exceedingly sharp. 

Sunday, February 16th. — I have been well scolded. 

" I do not understand why, with your talents, you have so 
much difficulty in painting." 

Nor do I understand it; but I am paralyzed. I can strug- 
gle no longer. I must die. Oh, God of goodness! Can I 
then expect nothing more from anyone? What revolts me 
just now is, that I have just filled the grate with wood without 
necessity, for I am not at all cold; while, perhaps, at the same 
moment, there are unhappy ones who are hungry and who 



424 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

weep from poverty. Such reflections immediately arrest the 
tears which I expected to flow. Possibly it is only an idea; 
but I believe that I should prefer complete poverty, for then 
one is at the bottom, there is nothing to fear, and there is no 
death from hunger while one has strength to work. 

Tuesday, February iSt/i. — Just now I fell on my knees at 
my bedside to ask God for justice, pity, pardon! If I have 
not deserved such tortures, let Him give me justice! If I have 
committed abominable crimes, let Him pardon me! If He 
exists at all, if He is such as they teach us to believe, He 
should be just, pitiful, and forgiving. I have but Him; it is 
but natural that I should seek Him, and that I should beg 
Him not to abandon me to despair, not to cause me to sin, 
nor to allow me to doubt, blaspheme, or die. 

My sin is, without doubt, like my torment, I probably com- 
mit every instant little infamies which form a frightful total. 

Just now I answered my aunt rudely, but I could not help 
it; she came in at a time when I was weeping, with my head 
buried in my hands, and begging God to notice me. Oh, mis- 
ery of miseries! 

No one must see me weep, they would think that I weep 
from disappointed love, and I — should weep at their mistake. 

Wednesday, February igf/i. — I must do something to distract 
myself. I say this as one imitates stupidly what is written in 
books. What is the use of distracting one's self? Torture is 
still a pleasure, and then I am not like others, and I detest all 
those things that are done for moral and physical cures, 
because I do not believe in them. 

Nice, Friday, February 21st. — At last, I am in Nice! 

I wished to take an air bath, to be flooded in light, and hear 
the noise of the waves. Do you love the sea? I am infatuated 
with it. It is only in Rome that I forget it — almost. 

I traveled with Paul, and people insisted on taking us for 
husband and wife, an idea which offended me supremely. As 
our villa is let, we are going to the Hotel du Pare, which is the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 425 

old Villa d'Acquaviva, in which we used to live eight years ago. 
Eight years! I am making a pleasure trip; we are to dine at 
London House. Antoine, the .maitre d' hotel, has just presented 
himself to me, also the ladies of the office, and then all the 
cab-men smile and salute, and the one whom we take compli- 
ments me on my height; he knows me. Then comes another, 
who offers his services, shouting that he drove Madame 
Romanoff; then my friends from the Rue de France. It is 
very kind of them, and all these good people have caused me 
pleasure. 

The night is beautiful, and I escaped all alone until 10 
o'clock. I wandered by the sea, and sang to the accompani- 
ment of the waves. 

None other was present, and it was delightful, especially 
after Paris — Paris! 

Saturday, February 22d. — What a difference to Paris! Here 
I awake uncalled; the windows are open all night. The room 
I occupy is the one in which we took our drawing-lessons of 
Benza. I see the sun, which, little by little, is lighting up the 
trees near the little pond in the middle of the garden, as I 
used to see it nearly every morning. My little study has the 
same paper; I chose it myself. No doubt it is occupied by 
some wild Englishman. I recognized it by the paper, for they 
have built a passage which troubles me — the room in which I 
am was merely a window. How beautiful it is! 

We take our meals at London House — this we shall do all 
the time that I remain at Nice; everyone goes there, specially 
during the carnival. 

Sunday, February 2$d. — Yesterday, we went to Monaco 
How repugnant is this nest of vice! I can never say so suffi- 
ciently. I only went into the rooms for ten minutes, but that 
was enough, since I do not play. 

Madame Abaza, who had come for the theatre, expressed her 
delight at meeting me. We listened to a comic opera in the 
new hall f which is very beautiful, and in the modern taste. 



426 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Gamier fecit! 

I took a walk in the twilight, and admired the sea and sky. 
What color, what transparency, what purity, what perfume! 

.Monday, February 24th. — I am happy when I can walk alone. 
The waves are of an incomparable beauty; before going to 
hear Patti, I listened to the waves. It had rained, and the 
air was delightfully fresh and cool. It does the eyes good to 
gaze into the deep blue of the sky and of the sea at night. 

I had walked so far, that I did not notice that at one place 
a portion of the path had been carried away by the water, and 
I fell into a pit three or four feet deep. 

Paris, Monday, March 3d. — I left yesterday at noon, the 
weather was beautiful, and I almost wept in earnest at leaving 
that delicious and incomparable scene. From my window I 
could see the garden, the Promenade des Anglais, and Parisian 
elegance. From the corridor I saw the Rue de France, with 
its old Italian dwellings, and its darkly picturesque lanes. 

All the people recognized me. " It is Mademoiselle Marie," 
they said, as I passed. I adore the houses and the streets of 
Nice, although the people cause me to suffer. After all, it is 
my country. I should like now to leave Paris; my mind wan- 
ders, and I feel lost. I expect nothing, and I want nothing. I 
am desperate and resigned. I think continually. I seek and, 
finding nothing, I breathe one of those sighs which leave me 
more oppressed than before! What would you do in my 
place? 

Now that I am in this pitiless Paris, I seem not to have 
gazed at the sea enough; I would wish to see it again. • You 
remember poor Bagatelle — the dog crushed at Spa and so 
miraculously cured — I have brought her back with me. It 
would be a pity to leave her all alone. You will never be able 
to imagine the sweetness, the fidelity, and the affection of this 
beast; she never leaves me, runs under my chair, and hides 
herself with a face so humble and supplicating, when my aunt 
arrives to protect the carpets. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 427 

v Tuesday, March <\th. — I have been to see Madame G — , and 
we went out together. She did some visiting, and, during the 
time, I read the papers in the carriage. 

The Countess Murat and her daughter-in-law were at her 
house. Ah, yes; Madame G — has at last obtained a position 
in society! They are enthusiastic over the departure of the 
prince, and weep over the danger he may run, while they extol 
his energy. He asked no advice! 

After all, if these good Zulus make a morsel of Napoleon, 
things will not be too desperate. The prince dead — no more 
party, no more obligations. There is a disposition to turn 
toward this rascally republic, which is, after all, the sister of 
the empire. 

Wednesday, March $th. — To-morrow, I shall start to work 
again. I allow myself a year more. A year in which I shall 
work even harder than before. What is the use of despair? 
It is an expression one uses when out of sorts, but when it 
seizes you — 

However, my dear, despair can bring about nothing, and 
since nothing can be changed, let us work, there is time 
enough to feel discouraged afterward. Since we must drag 
out this life in the hope of a better, let us fill it with occupa- 
tion. I have found no excuse to leave it; then, whether I read 
or draw — is it not the same thing? What singular reasons to 
induce myself to work! It is not even a pisaller; it is because 
I fear that in the future I may say: If, instead of staying in 
the studio, you had thought of yourself, you would perhaps 
have found — 

Whatever you will! It is perhaps possible, but I know not 
how to accomplish it. 

Fancy, it is atrocious, but I am always .returning to the pos- 
sibility of bringing my father here. Yes, indeed! Do you 
know what he is doing? He is refurnishing the house to 
receive us. Thank you! I have been there once, and that is 
enough. My mother and aunt are incapable of action, and 



428 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I — I have the meanness to avow — have no desire to induce 
them to go; and then, besides, it would not succeed if I tried. 

It is just at the moment when one has given up searching 
that the discovery is made. In any case, painting can not hurt 
me. But I am helped by no one! On the contrary! Con- 
tinue, my dear, make excuses to yourself to hide your want of 
intelligence. 

Novels! songs! I write, I think, I invent, I dream! And 
then I stop and it is ever the same silence, the same solitude, 
the same room; the immovability of the furniture is a provo- 
cation, a mockery; and there am I struggling with this night- 
mare, whilst others live! 

Fame? Bah! Fame! 

I will get married. What is the use of putting it off? 
What do I expect? From the moment I give up painting, the 
field is vast. I must go to Italy and marry there. Not in 
Russia. A purchased Russian would be a fearful thing; 
moreover, in Russia, I could easily marry, particularly in the 
country, but I am not so foolish. At St. Petersburg? Well, 
if my father wished, he might make us pass a winter there. 
Next winter at Petersburg, then. I do not believe I love my 
art! It is a means to an end. I abandon it! Do I mean 
this? Oh, I can not be certain! Shall I give myself a year, 
the length of the time for which we have rented our apartment? 

"To be, or not to be?" 

A year is not enough. At the end of a year we shall see if 
we must continue. But in Italy, if I do not paint any more, 
I shall hear conversations about young women artists, which 
will annoy me and cause regret; and then every time that in 
Naples, or in St. Petersburg, they praise any one's talent how 
shall I take it? Then again, all that will be based on my 
beauty, and if I do not succeed? For it is not sufficient to 
please, it is necessary to please a particular man. 

When art is eliminated, and I admit the possibility of 
going into society, or even the possibility of pleasing in the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 429 

street, or in the theatre — Bah! I don't know what I am say- 
ing. I will go to bed. The idea of St. Petersburg pleases 
me. Well, at twenty, I shall not be too old. At Paris, it is no 
good hoping for rich husbands; and for poor ones, Italy is the 
best place. 

Saturday, March 8th. — I have tried to model, but I never 
saw it done, and can do nothing. The flower-pots and 
vases are filled with violets. They will last long, for they are 
planted in earth. 

The blue satin, the violets, the light from overhead, 
the harp . . . not a sound, no one ... I know not 
why I am so afraid of the country. I am not afraid of it, but 
I do not like it. However, it is delightful to repose, but I am 
not tired. I suffer from ennui. 

Sunday, March gth. — Do you know it is a great consolation 
to write? There are things which would destroy you, if you 
did not know that you could write them and that they would 
be read by a multitude of people. 

I am pleased to find that a man like Dumas considers the 
quality of his paper, ink, and pens, because each time that any 
accessory impedes my work, I tell myself that it is idleness, 
and that the great painters had no such ideas. 

Wait! I can understand how, seized by a sudden inspira- 
tion, Raphael drew his " Madonna della Sedia" on the bot- 
tom of a cask, but I thoroughly believe, however, that this 
same Raphael, to paint and finish this same picture, had 
recourse to all his favorite implements, and that if he had been 
compelled to work anywhere against his will, he would have 
lost his power as I, simple mortal, did in Julian's studio. 

Wednesday, March 12th. — I must hang myself! However 
grandiloquent, impossible, and stupid the idea of killing 
myself may appear, it will have to come to that. 

Painting does not succeed. I might say it is true that 
since I paint, I work anyway, and with interruptions; but all 
the same, I — who dreamed of being rich, happy, and in the 



430 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

fashion, and surrounded by friends — to lead, drag out this mis- 
erable existence! 

Mademoiselle Elsnitz is always with me, but the poor creature 
is so tiresome. Fancy to yourself quite a little body, a large 
head, with blue eyes — just like the wooden heads at the dress- 
makers, with pink cheeks, and blue eyes! She is just that 
in features and expression; add to this exterior a languid air, 
which, by the by, is found in all the figures of w T hich we spoke, 
a slow step, but so heavy that one would think it a man's, a 
drawling and feeble voice; she swallows her words with an 
astonishing slowness; she is always absent-minded, never 
understands at once, and then stops in front of you and looks 
at you with a serious air, which either compels you to laugh 
or to be angry. 

She often arrives in the middle of the room, and stayg there, 
standing, without knowing where she is. 

What, perhaps, is the most tiresome, is the way she opens 
the doors. 

The operation lasts so long that each time I want to rush 
forward and help her. I know that she is young — nineteen. I 
know that she has always been unhappy, and that she is in a 
strange house, where she has not a friend; not a being with 
whom she can exchange a thought. She often makes me 
angry and then softens me by her gentle and passive manner; 
then I resolve to talk with her, but how can I? She is as 
repugnant to me as were the Pole and B — . I know that is 
wrong, but her idiotic manner paralyzes me. I know that her 
position is sad; however, with the Anitchkoff's, it was the 
same. To ask me for the least thing, to ask me to play on 
the piano, for example, she suffers from hesitations and 
tortures such as I should feel in begging for an invitation to a 
party or a ball. I have the excuse that I do not talk with any- 
one here; she is not then an exception. I work in the studio, 
and when taking my meals at home, I read the papers, or a 
book; it is a practice which I should find it difficult to give up. 



I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 431 



I read even when practicing on the mandolin. Therefore 
the poor thing is not treated worse than others; I feel 
remorse about it, but I can not help it. I am profoundly 
unhappy in her society; the trips that I have to take with her 
in the carriage would be a veritable torture to me if I did not 
look out of the window and, thinking hard of something else, 
contrive to forget her. One easily forgets her. 

Nothing is more retiring than this poor being, and also 
nothing is more tiresome. I should be so glad for her to find 
a place where she might be happy, so that she might leave 
here. I am ashamed to say that she spoils my desolate life for 
me. Oh, art of painting, if I could only acquire it! 

Friday, March i^th. — Paul has just left in spite of me. 
I was angry and told him he should not leave, and he 
declared on his honor that he would leave. I held the door, 
but he took advantage of a moment of distraction and 
got away. 

You see how it is, just to prove that he does not change 
his resolutions; he had sworn to leave to-day. In short the 
firmness of a feeble character which, feeling nothing in 
serious things, expends all its strength on trifles. 

I managed to control my emotion, and I immediately 
obtained 20 francs from my aunt to send an angry tele- 
gram to my father at Poltava, but just then Rosalie came to 
tell me not to count on Champeau ( who makes my dresses 
sometimes) as she has typhoid fever; her working-girls have 
left, and she is all alone. Then I had an idea — I tore up 
the message and sent the 2o*francs to the poor woman. 

There is no sensation more agreeable than a good action 
which can bring no return. I would go to see her (I am not 
afraid of typhus) but I should appear to expect thanks, 
whilst if I did not send this trifle at once, I might spend 
it, and then — let us acknowledge it would no more give 
me so lively a pleasure. I feel myself to be of an inexhausti- 
ble charity. To comfort the misery of others, when no squI 



432 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

comforts mine, would be a very nice thing to do, do you not 
think so? 

Saturday, March i$th. — If Robert-Fleury, nicknamed Tony 
in his absence, had scolded me to-day, I should have painted 
no more. You know how my advance has excited envy and 
caused me discomfort. Whenever I have been absent they 
seem to cry out, "I told you so; it could not last." My 
first canvases brought me many compliments, and then I 
entered on a difficult path and I felt too much the satisfaction 
around me at my poor efforts not to suffer extremely from it. 
This morning, I awaited this lesson as something terrifying, 
and while that animal, Tony, corrected the others and came 
nearer and nearer me, I said my prayers with a fervor which 
heaven appreciated, for he was pleased with me. Heavens ! 
what a weight fell from my heart! Perhaps you have no idea 
of these emotions. Picture to yourself the silence in which I 
was, feeling the joy that they would have to see me crushed 
again; this time it would be for good, for friends or enemies 
are the same on such occasions. Fortunately, it is past, and 
next week I can support just as much scolding as they please. 

Sunday, March 16th. — Coco is dead; crushed by a cart 
before the door. When I called him to dinner, they told me. 
After the grief that the loss of the first Pincio caused me, 
replaced by the present Pincio, this loss seems less to me, but 
if you have a dog born in the house, young, foolish, playful, 
good, and cheerful, who comes to meet you with soft and 
anxious eyes, unconscious as those of a child, you will under- 
stand why my loss grieves ifte. 

Where do the souls of dogs go? This poor little thing, 
long, white, and hairless (for he had no hair on his back 
behind the shoulders), one enormous ear always erect and 
the other falling! I delight ten times more in an ugly dog 
like that than in those frightful beasts that cost so much. 

He was like one of the animals in the Apocalypse or like 
a monster carved on the roof of Notre Dame, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 433 

Pincio does not seem to perceive that they have killed 
her son; it is true, that she is expecting a fresh family. 

They shall all be called Coco, or Coquelicot. I believe 
they say that dogs have no soul, but why? 

Tuesday, April \st. — Why should gaiety be more agreeable 
than ennuil I have only to say that ennui pleases and 
amuses me. 

A very convenient reminiscence of the manual of Epic- 
tetus, you say? But I might reply that impressions are inVol- 
untary. To live no longer! That is the point I wish to reach. 
It would be much shorter to — but no, then all would be finished. 

There is nothing so hateful in the world as not to be of the 
world; to live a hidden life; to see no one interesting; to be 
unable to exchange an idea; to see neither celebrated nor pop- 
ular men. It is death; it is worse than the nether regions! 

I will only speak of what are conventionally called mis- 
fortunes. We should not rebel against them, nor complain. 
The misfortunes themselves are enjoyments, and should be 
accepted as the very elements of life. Suppose that I lose a 
much-loved friend, do you think that does not affect me? On 
the contrary, I should be desperate; I should weep, groan, and 
cry aloud; then it would resolve itself into sadness for a long 
while, perhaps forever. 

I do not find that agreeable. I do not desire it, I do not 
prefer it; but I am compelled to say that that would be life, 
and consequently enjoyment. 

After the loss of a husband or child, or the deception of a 
friend, one utters cries of reproach against destiny. I should 
no doubt do the same. These manifestations are in the regu- 
lar order of things, and God is not offended with them, neither 
is man offended with them, feeling that they are the natural 
and inevitable consequences of the grief experienced. One 
groans, but one does not cry from the bottom of the soul that 
it ought not to be. 

Without perceiving that we do so, we accept it. 
28 



434 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

After some great misfortune one longs to be alone; to enter 
a convent. Understand, I say after some great misfortune. 
It happens, also, often, that one is happy all alone — that is to 
say, with a husband, or with parents of whom one thinks and 
for whom one lives! — but I, I speak for persons entirely soli- 
tary; besides, to-day, I have a grudge against my family as 
being one of the causes of my sufferings. Again, I do not 
speak for the silent and unknown heroes, described in novels 
by p'eople who invent them, or copy them from nature, because 
I can not be like them. 

Do you imagine that I complain of a quiet life and desire 
excitement? That may be; but it is not that alone. 

I love solitude, and I even think that if I truly lived, I 
should isolate myself at times for reading, meditation, and 
repose. In such cases it is a charm, a sweet and exquisite 
happiness. In great heat it is enchanting to bury one's self in a 
cave, but not to rest there long, or forever. 

Now, if some clever person wished to give himself the 
trouble of confuting me, he would ask if I would consent to 
purchase life by the death of my mother, for example. To 
that I would reply that I would not wish it, even at the price 
of a less treasured life, since, according to nature, one's mother 
is the most loved. 

I should suffer fearful remorse; I would not wish it from 
very egotism. 

Thursday, April 3d. — After all, life is pleasant. I sing and 
dance when I am quite alone, for complete solitude is a great 
enjoyment; but what torture when it is broken by servants or 
relations! — especially by one's relations! Listen! this morn- 
ing, returning from the studio, I thought myself happy, and 
you would not believe what affection I found in my heart for 
my family, for my kind aunt, full of devotion and self-denial; 
but now, I am no longer happy. 

That poor Elsnitz spoils my life. I no longer drink tea, 
because she pours it out, and when I am obliged to eat bread 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 435 

which she has touched — faugh! I would be willing to get 
heart disease by rushing, like a mad girl, upstairs, to be a 
moment without her, if I could only accomplish it. To pass 
the decanter or vinegar cruet, I handle them awkwardly sooner 
than touch where she has touched. She has something of the 
worm about her. This poor creature, with her plaintive air and 
dirty nails, worries me to death. 

Saturday, April $th. — Robert- Fleury is sick and has scarcely 
made any examination; what I have done is not very good. 

Sarah wants to reconcile me with Breslau. I raise objec- 
tions; but I should, in reality, be very glad. 

The artificial leaves over the fire-place took fire from the 
blue candles, and the mirror is broken. 

But misfortunes do not happen because a mirror breaks. 
Mirrors break when misfortunes are about to happen; one 
should be thankful for the warning. 

Sunday, April 6th.~I have such a quiet hat that I am not 
afraid to pass my time alone at the Louvre; but since, although 
it is particularly quiet, the hat suits me, I made the conquest 
of a young artist, who followed me all the time and risked a 
bow in a corridor, where there was no one else; but I took no 
notice and he was much embarrassed. 

Tuesday, April i$th. — Julian, when he came, announced the 
death of our Emperor. I was so much agitated by it that I 
understood nothing of what was said. All rose to look at me. 
I turned pale, tears rose to my eyes, and my lips trembled. 
Having seen me always in a laughing mood, Julian, in his 
kindness, wished to laugh. The truth is that a man has fired 
four shots at the Emperor, quite close to him, but the Emperor 
was not hit. 

And Julian slapped his knee and cried that he would never 
have believed me capable of so much emotion. But neither 
would I have believed it myself. 

Wednesday, April 16th. — A rather curious talk with Breslau. 
We were in the antechamber — -she, Sarah, and I. I gave an 



436 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

orange to Sarah, who offered half of it to Breslau, and said to 
her, laughingly: "Take it, it is from me and not from Made- 
moiselle Marie." And while she was hesitating, I stopped 
washing my brushes, and turning toward her, said, smiling: 
" I offer it to you." She was quite confused, took the orange, 
and blushed. I also. 

" You see what it is to have oranges," said I, peeling a sec- 
ond. " Take some more, Mademoiselle." 

" Look, Sarah, how we are both blushing." 

" It is so stupid," said Sarah. 

" I am overwhelming you with kindness," I said, laughingly, 
to Breslau, offering her a new slice. 

" You see what little notice I take of you," said she, taking it. 

" Not less than I of you. But if you care so little, you 
would not blush so." 

" I care little for myself." 

"Ah, very good!" 

As it was commencing to become affecting, I laughed and 
looked at her. 

" I admire you." 

" Me?" asked Breslau. 

"Yes, you." 

"You are right to do so." 

"Of course." 

And it was all over. 

"Are you coming, Sarah?" said Breslau. I returned to my 
task. "How childish!" 

Friday, April iSl/i. — I was looking for an empire or direct- 
ory head-dress, which made me read about Madame R6cam- 
ier, and naturally I was humiliated in thinking that I, too, might 
have a salon, and have not. 

Idiots will cry out that I think myself as beautiful as R£cam- 
ier and as witty as a goddess. 

Let the idiots cry, and let us be content by saying that I 
merit a better lot, in proof of which all those who see me 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 437 

imagine that I rule and that I am a remarkable woman. I 
draw a deep sigh, and say to myself: My day will come, per- 
haps — I am accustomed to the idea of God. I tried not to 
believe in Him, but I can not help it. What a confusion with- 
out Him! What a chaos! I have only God, a God Who is 
interested in all my little affairs, and to Whom I tell everything. 

Monday \ April 21st. — The last day of the competition was 
pretty animated. 

On Saturday I went with Lisen, the Swede, to see the artists 
of Batignolles, near Montmartre cemetery, away up on the 
heights. I discovered that I hate only the boulevards and 
new parts of Paris. 

Old Paris, and the higher parts, where I was on Saturday, 
breathe a perfume of poetry and tranquillity, which took com- 
plete possession of me. . 

Tuesday, May 6th. — I am very busy and very happy. I was 
troubled because I had too much leisure; I realize that now. 
For about three weeks, I have worked from 8 to 12 and from 
2 to half-past 5 and sometimes to 7 ; and after that, sometimes 
a few sketches and some reading, or, perhaps, a little music; by 
10 o'clock, I am only fit to go to bed. 

This is an existence which leaves no time for thinking of the 
shortness of life. 

Music, in the evening, calls up Naples. Such things trouble 
me. I will read Plutarch. 

Wednesday, May ph. — If this rage for work could last, I 
should declare myself perfectly happy. I adore drawing and 
painting, composition and sketching, pencil and crayon work. 
I have not a single desire for rest or idleness. 

I am happy! A month of days like this represents the 
progress of six ordinary months. 

It is so amusing and pleasant that I fear it will not last. 
In such moments I require faith in myself. 

Thursday, May &th. — My poor childhood saw proofs of love 
in the interest I took in reading histories of cardinals in the 



438 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

time of A — . . . . To-day I read histories of painters with 
the same interest, and I even have palpitations of the heart in 
listening to studio stories. 

Monday, May 12th. — I am pretty, happy, and light-spirited. 
We went to the Salon and then we had a general talk, because 
we met Berand, the painter, whom we puzzled at the ball and 
who passed close by us without suspecting it. 

Breslau's painting is a fine large canvas filled up with a 
beautiful chair in gilt leather in which her friend Marie is 
sitting in a green dress, and a grayish-blue something round 
the neck. One hand holds a portrait and a flower, the other 
a packet of letters which she has just tied up with a red ribbon. 
A simple arrangement and a common subject. The drawing 
is admirable, and the general harmony of tones gives a charm- 
ing effect. 

I fear that I am going to utter an enormity, but you must 
acknowledge that we have not a single great artist. There is 
Bastien Lepage; where are the rest? Plenty of knowledge, 
technique, an,d conventionality, too much conventionality, far 
too much. 

There is nothing true, vibrating, soaring, nothing to take 
hold of you, to make you shiver or weep. 

I am not speaking of sculpture. I have seen too little of it 
to be able to say anything. When one sees the atrocious 
trivialities of genre pictures and the wretched, pretentious 
mediocrities in ordinary, or even good portraits, one nearly 
loses courage. 

To-day, I found only one good thing, Bonnat's portrait of 
Victor Hugo, and perhaps Breslau's picture. 

Breslau's chair is badly drawn, the lady looks as if she were 
clinging on to it, for fear of falling forward; it is a pity. I 
name Bonnat because he gets the truth, and Breslau because I 
find that all her calm tones harmonize. 

I can not endure L — , who paints the same toes in all his 
figures. It irritates and enrages me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 439 

Wednesday, May 14M. — Instead of going to the Salon I 
worked at my sketch: " The Death of Orpheus." 

I do not believe that composition is more trouble to me than 
drawing. My ideas run on fame, happiness, and everything 
that is best in the world. 

Friday \ May 16th. — The Salon has this bad thing about it, 
that in seeing the failures, the wretched failures that are there, 
one begins to think something of one's self, when one is as 
yet a nonentity. 

Friday, May $oth. — Jeanneposed for me and we kept her for 
dinner. 

I need not tell you that she is of good family, well brought 
up, thoroughly educated, and intelligent. She dresses poorly 
and people take her for a rail, while, in reality, she has the most 
beautiful form one can find; at the same time, she is dark 
and thin. 

She has magnificent eyes, with mouth and nose in propor- 
tion. Her nose is very large, but beautiful and noble. A 
swan's neck. She reminds me of the Queen of Italy, even 
though she is a brunette; her skin is not dark, however, but 
very white. 

As you know, she married Baron W — , a fearful brute of a man. 

The poor woman was near death when her family saved her 
by suing for a separation. Poor woman! She hates him. You 
easily understand that, in such a case, it is better to drown than 
live with one's husband. She is one of the Temple women 
we read of in " L* Homme- Femme" 

Thursday, June $th. — Jeanne posed and then we went 
together to see Madame de Souza who receives Thursdays. In 
the evening to the L — 's; mamma went with me, though still 
in mourning. 

Monsieur de L — took a candle and conducted us to see the 
children all in bed and asleep. He was quite like a guide in a 
museum of curiosities. All the guests are taken by turn to see 
the nine miracles (considering the father's age). 



440 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Saturday , June jt/i. — Madame de L — sent us seven of her 
children with three nurses. 

But I ought to say first that the tone of my picture was not 
bad (for me that is the most important thing), but the con- 
struction! Robert-Fleury scolded me. It is not, however, so 
very disastrous, since I pay more attention to color. I forget 
the construction, which comes in when the color is no longer 
troubling me. One can not lose what one has gained. All the 
same I am blue. 

These children of the L — 's are very curious. They are 
accustomed to being made a show of, and go through a regular 
set of movements. After five minutes they were quite at 
home. They wanted their portraits taken, and each posed in 
turn. I sketched the seven in four or five minutes. The 
eldest decided that they were well done, and then he made 
me put the number and name under each. 

I feel idiotic, out of sorts, stupid! 

Monday, June gt/i. — No doubt it is the heavy, warm 
weather which makes me good-for-nothing. But I have 
worked all day. I have quite decided not to miss any more 
work, but it is killing me. To-night we shall go to the ball at 
the foreign ministry. I shall be ugly. I am sleepy, and 
would rather go to bed. 

I am not thirsty for admiration, and I feel that I shall be 
unpleasant and stupid. 

I no longer even think of conquests. I dress well, but I 
no longer put soul into it, and I never remember to think of 
the effect I may be producing. I look at nothing and no one, 
and am thoroughly tired; painting is the only thing left. I 
have no more wit, no more society conversation. When I 
want to speak I am dull or extravagant, and then — I must 
make my will, for this can not last long. 

Saturday, June 14M. — I drew this morning and they said it 
was not up to my standard. 

Enough of society! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 441 

Sunday y June i$th. — For the moment I throw off all my 
anxieties, and am quite decided to work. Julian is a great 
man in the way in which he treats the duties which fall on 
me, and he says I must succeed, precisely because — We under- 
stand one another, oh, kind posterity! Do we not? 

"I must begin next year/' the illustrious director of the 
Folies-Julian is always saying. 

Yes; it is determined upon, and you will see, Grandfather 
Julian, that I come of a courageous race. 

Of course you praise me for the money I bring, and the 
honor I shall bring to the studio. What does it matter? And 
then, whether I do well or ill, you are paid just the same. 

You shall see if I do not die! My heart beats, and I have 
a fever, when I think I have only a few months left. 

I shall work as much as possible all the time. To-morrow I 
go to Versailles, but if I miss lessons only to go to Versailles, 
it will not be anything very bad at the most, one afternoon a 
week. 

Julian has already detected a respectable improvement in 
my work, and I never fail to make my weekly study of com- 
positions. I keep an album, in which I sketch, and number 
these sketches with titles, marking the dates of each. 

Saturday, June 21st. — I have been crying for nearly thirty- 
six hours. I went to bed exhausted yesterday. 

We had two Russians to dinner, Abigink and Sevastianoff, 
gentlemen of the Chamber to the Emperor, Tchoumakoff and 
Bojidar, but I was good-for-nothing. My skeptical and 
mocking spirit had disappeared. It has happened to me to 
lose relatives and to have other causes for grief, but I think I 
have never wept for any one as I have for him who is just 
dead, and it is the more strange, because there is no 
reason why it should affect me. I ought rather to be glad. 
Yesterday, at noon, I was leaving the studio, when Julian 
whistled to the servant, who placed her ear to the tube and 
said to us at once, in a voice that showed emotion: " Ladies, 



4:4:2 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Monsieur Julian desires to inform you that the Prince Imperial 
is dead." 

I assure you that I shrieked. I sat down on the coal-box, 
and while everyone was speaking at once, she continued: 

" A moment's silence, if you please, ladies. It is official; 
the telegram has just been received. He was killed by the 
Zulus. Monsieur Julian says so." 

The report had been about for some time, so when I was 
brought the Estafette with the words in large print, " Death of 
the Prince Imperial," I can not tell you how much I was affected. 

Moreover, to whatever party one belongs, whether French 
or foreigner, it is impossible not to feel the general impres- 
sion, which is one of stupor. 

This fearful, ill-timed death is a terrible thing. 

But I will say what none of the papers do: The English are 
cowards and assassins. It is not natural. There must be one 
or several men guilty, infamous traitors! Is it usual to expose 
to such danger a prince ? the hope of his party ? a son ? No! 
I believe that even a wild beast would melt in thinking of the 
mother. The most terrible misfortunes, the most cruel losses 
always leave something, a ray, a suspicion of consolation, of 
hope. In this case there is nothing! It maybe said without 
fear of extravagance that this is a grief that has never been 
equaled. She was the cause of his leaving, she worried him, 
tormented him. She would not give him five hundred francs a 
month, and made life a burden to him. The son left on bad 
terms with his mother. 

Do you comprehend the bitterness of the thing? Think of 
the woman! 

There are very unhappy mothers, but not one has ever felt 
such a blow as this; for all the rumors, and sympathy, and 
blame, in connection with this death, will only serve to 
increase her grief. 

The monster who announced this news to her had better 
have killed her. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 443 

I went to the studio, and Robert-Fleury much complimented 
me; but I came back to sob again, and then I went to 
Madame G — 's, where everyone is in mourning, with swollen 
eyes, from the concierge upward. 

"Monsieur Rouher was an hour without speaking. They 
thought it was all over, then he burst into tears and Madame 
Rouher has had nervous attacks all the evening, crying that 
her husband will die, and that she will die, too." 

Then Madame G — stopped her story and said, with an air of 
conviction: "Really, on such occasions, one should manage 
not to have nervous attacks. It is very inconvenient," she 
added, very seriously. 

I held back my tears, for they could not have understood 
how I felt; but I could not help smiling when I heard Madame 
G — tell her story to some ladies in mourning, and say that 
Madame Rouher, when she heard the news, iz\\ flat on her 
back. There will be mourning for six months. People will 
tire of it long before; but, you understand, for the first few 
days — 

The English have always behaved badly to the Bonapartes, 
who have continually been stupid enough to turn for help to 
that ignoble England, a country which I hate and despise. 

The passions are easily excited; one weeps freely over a 
novel. How can one help being moved to the bottom of the 
soul by this overwhelming catastrophe — this horrible, hateful, 
pitiful end! I have, all along, thought that C — would incline 
to the Jerome family, and that has happened. 

Here is a whole party without a leader. They must have 
a prince, if only a make-believe one, and I think they will 
be united in their choice. Some, the least compromised, 
will join the republic, but the others will continue to sup- 
port some shadow. Who can tell? Did they npt'say when 
the King of Rome died that all was over? 

Death! at such a time! Death at twenty-three! Killed by 
savages while fighting for the English! 



444 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I believe that, at the bottom of their hearts, his cruelest 
enemies feel something of remorse. 

I have read all the papers, even those which insult his mem- 
ory. I watered them with my tears. 

If I were a Frenchman and .a Bonapartist, I could not be 
more shocked, more grieved. Think of this child whom the 
insinuations of the infamous radical papers compelled to 
go to Zululand! Think of this child who was attacked and 
assassinated by savages! 

The cries that he uttered, his desperate appeals, his suffer- 
ing, the horror of helplessness! To die in an unknown, fright- 
ful corner, abandoned, almost betrayed! Then to set out, in 
that way, alone with Englishmen! 

The poor mother! 

And the English papers are sufficiently infamous to insinu- 
ate that there was no danger in the place where the recon- 
naissance was made. Can there be any safety for a troop of 
only a few men in such a country in the midst of savage 
enemies? 

One must be foolish or idiotic to believe it. But read the 
details. He was left there three days, and it was only when 
too late that Carey noticed that the prince was missing. 

When he saw the Zulus, he ran off with the others, without 
troubling about the prince. 

No, think of it, to see it in print in their papers and know 
that this nation is not exterminated; that their wretched island 
and their cold, barbarous, perfidious, infamous people can not 
be annihilated! Oh, if it were in Russia! But our soldiers 
would rather have died to the last man! 

And these wretches abandoned him, betrayed him! Read 
the details, I say, and you will be struck with their infamy 
and cowardice. 

Do soldiers take flight without defending their comrades? 

And Lieutenant Carey is not to be hanged? The mother, 
too; the Empress, poor Empress! All is finished, lost, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 445 

annihilated! Nothing remains save a poor mother in mourn- 
ing. 

Monday, June 23d. — I am still under the painful impression 
of this terrible event. The public, recovering a little from 
the first stupor, begins to ask by what criminal carelessness 
the poor child was given up to the savages. 

The English press is excited about the cowardice of the 
prince's companions. And I, who have no concern in the 
matter, my breath leaves me, and the tears rise in my eyes. 
I have never been more disturbed, and the efforts I make all 
day not to weep are painful. It is said that the Empress died 
last night; but no paper confirms this terrible, yet consoling 
news. My heart is full of rage when I think how easy it 
would have been to prevent this crime, this misfortune, this 
infamy! 

One still sees terrified faces in the streets, and the paper- 
sellers weep. And I — I do like the papersellers, acknowledg- 
ing all the time that it can not be explained away, that it is 
unnatural. I should like to put on real mourning, with crape 
that would correspond with my feelings. 

" How does it concern you?" people will say. I do not 
know why it affects me, but I know that it does. 

Not a soul! I am shut up in my room. I am not posing, 
and I melt into tears, which is very silly, because it weakens 
my eyes. I felt it already this morning, while working. But 
I can find no rest from the thought of the fatal, horrible, fear- 
ful circumstances which surround this death, of the baseness 
of his companions. 

It would have been so easy to prevent it! 

Wednesday, July 2d.- — Having read more statements by 
English soldiers, I arrived at the studio so upset that I was 
obliged to blot out my painting and leave. 

By Saturday, I shall have the time to draw Dina in profile; 
she has become more beautiful in proportion as I have become 
ill-looking. 



446 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Wednesday, July 16th. — I am extraordinarily tired; they say 
that typhoid fever begins this way. 

I have had bad dreams. What if I were about to die? I 
am quite astonished that I am not afraid of death. If there 
be another life, it must certainly be better than the one I lead 
here; and if there be nothing after death, there is the more 
reason to fear nothing, and to wish to see an end of all my 
trials without fame, and torments without glory. I must 
absolutely make my will. 

I begin to work at light in the morning, and by 5 I am so 
tired that my evening is wasted. Ves, I must make my will. 

Monday, July 21st. — Decidedly, we have no summer; it gets 
colder and colder. 

This week's model, for all day, is a brunette of astonishing 
beauty. 

She has a statuesque figure, and exquisite coloring. She 
will not long be a model, so we take all the advantage 
possible. 

Sunday, August 3d. — My dog Coco II. has disappeared. It 
happened while we were at the theatre. I was surprised not 
to see him rush forward on my arrival, and I went to look for 
him among the others; then they told me he was lost. It 
does not matter to you, but I loved this poor creature intensely, 
I who had christened him, and had attached myself to him as 
much as he to me. 

You can not understand how much I feel it. I stayed all 
day long working with this dog for my constant companion. 
My family, who know how pained I am, keep a dead silence. 

Mamma was on the move all the evening. 

When I came in, I went down-stairs to the street to beg the 
policeman to bring him back if they found him. 

All the servants have been told to find the dog or they will 
be dismissed. This is the fourth dog in a year — first Pincio, 
then Coco I., eight days ago, Niniche, and now Coco II. 

Monday, August 4H1. — I could not sleep. I have always in 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 447 

my sight £hat poor little stupid dog who was frightened away 
by the carriage, and knew not where to go. 

I even deigned to shed a few tears, after which I prayed God 
to help me find him. I have a special prayer that I say to 
myself, when I beg for anything. I never remember to have 
used it without consolation. 

This morning, they awakened me, bringing back the dog, 
and the poor thing was so hungry that he was not very affec- 
tionate. 

I had looked on him as lost, and the family kept saying that 
he had been killed, to set me at rest. 

Mamma declares that it is a real miracle that we ever found 
the dog. She would think it still more miraculous if I told 
her of my prayer; but I shall only speak of it on this paper, 
and I do not like even to do that. There are thoughts and 
prayers of so individual a character that they seem stupid and 
aimless when written down. 

Saturday, August gth. — Shall I go or stay? The trunks are 
packed. My doctor does not seem to believe in the waters of 
Mont Dore. What does it matter? I go there for rest, and 
when I return, I shall lead a life of constant work. 

I shall paint as long as it is light, and work at sculpture at 
night. 

Wednesday •, August \$th. — We arrived at Dieppe at i o'clock 
last night. 

Are all sea-side towns the same? I have been at Ostend, 
Calais, Dover, and am at Dieppe. It smells of tar, boats, 
ropes, and sail-cloth. It blows, and we are exposed on every 
side; it is distressing. It savors of sea-sickness. What a 
difference from the Mediterranean! There one can breathe, 
there is something to admire, it is comfortable. Besides, it 
does not smell of all these wretched things. I turn with 
pleasure to a pretty little nest of verdure such as Soden or 
Schlangenbad, and as Mont Dore must be. 

I come here to breathe. Yes. Possibly outside the town 



448 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the air is better. I do not like these northern towns. The sea 
is only visible from the third stories of the hotels. Oh, Nice! 
Oh, San Remo! Oh, Naples! Oh, Sorrento! You are not 
empty words. You are not exaggerated nor profaned by 
the travelers' guide books. You are truly beautiful and 
divine. 

Saturday, August 16th. — We laugh a good deal and I am 
very tired, but to laugh is natural to me and independent of 
my humor. 

I used to be interested in the passers-by at a watering- 
place; they amused me. But I am now completely indiffer- 
ent; whether there are dogs or men around me, is just the 
same. I still amuse myself best when I am alone in playing 
or painting. I expected to be in the world quite another 
thing than I am; and once it is not what I thought, it matters 
not to me what it may be. 

It is impossible to deny that I have been unfortunate all 
the time. 

Tuesday, August 19M. — I took my first sea-bath and the 
whole thing makes me want an excuse for crying. I would 
sooner dress as a mussel-gatherer than as I do. What an 
unhappy nature mine is! I would like an exquisite harmony 
in every detail of life; frequently, things which pass for 
elegant and pretty shock me by a want of art, of grace, and 
of I know not what. I should like to see my mother, ele- 
gant, intellectual, and at least dignified and proud. Wretched 
state of existence! In truth, no one ought to be so punished. 

Trifles? All is relative, and if a pin gives you as much 
pain as a knife, what have the wiseacres to say? 

Wednesday, August 20th. — I do not believe that I can ever 
feel a sentiment in which ambition has no part. I despise 
people who are not of some importance. 

Thursday, August 21st. — This morning I went to make a 
sketch of Mere Justin, who is seventy-three. She has had 
nineteen children and sells sand. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 449 

People came but I pretended to notice no one, and then 
there came a troop of soldiers to drill on the beach, and 
presently a beating rain, but I will go back to-morrow. 
It amuses me to sketch in the open air; these canvases will 
set off my studio. 

It is perfectly understood, I hope. I affect no artistic 
exterior nor those abominable airs of people who smear can- 
vas, without talent, and dress as artists. 

Dieppe, Friday, August 22a 7 . — Oh, sublime Balzac! You are 
the greatest of earth's geniuses; wherever one turns, it is 
always the sublimest comedy. 

I have just seen two women, who, from their origin, faces, 
and life make me think of Balzac, that great, inexhaustible, 
incredible genius. 

My people are back from the theatre. They think 
Madame de S — is plain. That is, in fact, what everybody says. 

How is it I find her so charming? 

I am willing to admit that she is not pretty, but with my 
artistic eye I am seduced by a certain fine quality in the 
lines of her lips and fine angular nose. She has no wrinkles 
on her cheeks, no pockets under her eyes, and moreover has 
exquisite manners. 

Friday, August 2gtk. — Fatalism is the religion of the idle 
and desperate. I am desperate and swear that I do not 
care for life. I would not letter this absurdity if I only 
thought it for the moment, but I think it always, even in my 
most happy hours. I despise death. If there is nothing 
beyond, it is a simple matter, and if there is something, I 
commend myself to God. But I do not think I shall go to 
heaven, for these earthly tortures will still continue there; 
they are devoted to them there. 

Monday, September ist. — I hope you have noticed the great 
change which has taken place in me little by little. 

I am become serious and reasonable, and then I pierce 
deeper into certain ideas. I understand many things which I 

29 



450 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

did not understand and of which I spoke formerly according 
to the circumstances without any convictions. I have 
grasped to-day, for example, that it is possible to have a 
great affection for and to love an idea as one loves one's 
self. 

Devotion to princes, to dynasties, affects me, fires me, makes 
me weep and would, perhaps, under the direct impulse of some 
stirring event, make me act; but I have a profound sentiment 
which prevents my absolutely approving of myself in all 
these heart-burning fluctuations. Each time I think of the 
great men who have served under other men, my admiration 
for them halts and disappears. It is a sort of foolish vanity, 
perhaps, but I think them almost despicable, these servants, 
and I am only a royalist when I put myself in the place of the 
king. Now understand, Gambetta is not a mere vulgarly 
ambitious man; the intuition which makes me think this 
must be strong and well based or I could not say it sincerely 
after being for three hours steeped in the reactionary press. 

As to myself, I have no objection to seeing myself bow 
before kings, but I can neither love nor completely esteem a 
man who would so bow. 

I do not, however, reject the rays shed by royalty! No! it 
is quite natural, is it not, that I should be charmed to be the 
wife of an attache or an ambassador, or to be about a court? 
Unfortunately, such men have^o fortune, they need to seek a 
dowry. 

Now here I am speaking my innermost sentiments. I have 
always thought this; but one does not always know how to say 
what one thinks. I admit a constitutional royalty as in Italy, 
or in England, with some hesitation. I am disgusted with 
these salutations of the royal family; it is a useless humiliation. 
It is all very well when the king is sympathetic, as was Victor 
Emmanuel, who represented and worked out a great idea, and 
as is Queen Marguerite, who is adorable and kind; but these 
are happy accidents, and it is much more natural to have an 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSfcLFF. 451 

elected head; one consequently always sympathetic, and who 
is surrounded by an intelligent-aristocracy. 

An aristocracy is neither destroyed nor created in a day; it 
must be supported; but not on that account be shut up as in 
a stupid citadel. 

Ancient dynasties are the negation of progress and of intelli- 
gence. 

They cry out against mere men; but why? 

Men disappear and can be got rid of when no longer useful. 
They say that the Republican party is full of men of tarnished 
characters. Some months ago I explained my ideas about that. 

They speak of absurd hate against the persons of kings. 
That is not the question. It is not that the man is bad; but 
that the function is useless. 

I respect illustrious families; they always have existed, exist 
now, and will exist. The country ought to honor them; but 
between that and stupidly carrying on one's back forever a man 
and his posterity . . . No, none of that I am not speak- 
ing against the power of race; on the contrary. 

Caesarism copies the Romans. Why copy? If the people 
are deceived by intrigues and disloyal maneuvers, it is their 
own fault; but with kings there is no necessity for intelligent 
effort, they can not even choose, nine times out of ten. It is 
the uncertain, the unknown, routine, imbecility, and cowardice. 
If the people be stupid and choose badly, they merit nothing 
better. These reflections are answers to the usual remarks 
against the republic. 

But understand clearly. . . . My republic is a republic 
enlightened, polished, and aristocratic. What shall I call it? 
iUhenian he called it. The word aristocratic requires reflec- 
tions and explanations. Birth, manners, and education, even 
if there be no great intelligence, are the attributes of aristoc- 
racy. Yes, for in social relations there are things the influence 
of which can not be denied. Besides, there is only one possible 
equality — equality in the eyes of the law — all other equalities 



452 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

are but poor comedies, invented by the enemies of liberty, or 
begged for by the ignorant. 

Wednesday, September 3d. — The arrival of those who had 
been transported, wearing caps of liberty and red sashes, is a 
disgraceful thing. They ought never to have been allowed to 
return. They had settled down where they were and will be 
foreigners here. God only knows what complication may arise 
from this return of husbands and wives after ten years' 
absence. 

I have no time to tell you how I should treat those mistaken 
people who demanded this return. 

Paris, Wednesday, September 17th. — To-day is a Wednesday, 
a favorable day, a seventeenth, a good day for me to com- 
mence to learn sculpture. I have been to see about the studios. 
Robert-Fleury came yesterday to the studio; there was not 
much to correct, so he gave me some good advice, persuading 
me to persevere with my painting, which I know scarcely any- 
thing of at present. 

And so I am to work at sculpture by gas-light, instead of 
drawing. You understand I lose nothing by doing so, as I 
paint as long as it is light and when day is gone, turn to 
sculpture. Is it arranged? Yes, indeed. I took a walk with 
the strong Swede, Amanda. She told me of her visit to Tony 
(who was very kind to me yesterday) and with whom she 
talked of all the students. He told her that A — would always 
fail in drawing and construction. It is a fact that she produces 
senseless pictures, swollen heads, eyes awry, etc. As for 
Breslau, he said she had not made enough progress, and Julian 
added that her talent was one due to application. Emma has 
good powers, but will not work, and has foolish ideas. He 
said of me: " Well endowed naturally, a good worker, applies 
herself to art severely, astonishing and rapid progress, good 
drawing " — in a word, a concert of praise. I suppose it is 
true, since it is told to strangers, and I am glad, for it gives 
me courage. I will work better and longer on account of it. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 453 

I want to go to the country, a true country place with trees, 
lawns, and a park. I want verdure like that of Schlangenbad 
or Soden instead of this stupid and dried up Dieppe. And 
they tell me I do not like the country. 

I am not fond of the country in Russia, of the neighbors, 
the houses — but I adore trees and pure air to such a degree 
that I wish to pass a fortnight in some corner very green and 
very sweet with perfume, as before I wished to go to Rome. 
But of Rome I scarcely ever speak, even in this diary — the 
subject drives me wild, and I wish to be tranquil. 

I was crossing the Tuileries gardens when I was seized with 
1 all these ideas of villeggiatura. What do I expect? I love it 
I as much as I hate the sandy and windy beach. But to pass a 
1 fortnight in Switzerland with my family would be very tire- 
some. Tiffs, recriminations, and all the accessories of domes- 
tic happiness would be there. 

Wednesday, October ist. — Here are the papers and I have 
j just read the 300 pages x>f the first number of Madame 
\ Adam's review. It disturbed me somewhat and I left the stu- 
1 dio at 4 to drive in the Bois with a new hat which attracted 
attention; but now, what is that to me? I think Madame 
I Adam must be very happy. 

I suppose you know me well enough to understand the 
' influence that all these living questions exercise on my poor 
brain. I have no room for my old loyalty of feeling. I still 
love violets, but only as a flower; not as a symbol. 

I turn to the republic and the new ideas. To-day I am 
deep in the " Revue Nouvelle." Who knows whether at some 
moment I may not become enthusiastic over Prince Napoleon, 
whom, for that matter, I prefer to Napoleon III., and who 
really amounts to something? No; understand that I am not 
joking, and that I am very advanced in my politics. One 
must move with the times, more especially when you have the 
real desire and irresistible longing to mingle in politics. 

Saturday, October nth. — I left my drawing of the head in 



454 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the middle of the week, consequently when Robert-Fleury 
passed from the large studio to the little one, I concealed 
myself among the cloaks, but he saw me and reproached me 
mildly. As I answered he continued along the passage, shak- 
ing his head and looking at me, so that, not looking ahead, he 
ran his nose against the door and I laughed. Of course he 
was very chilly in correcting my torso and said nothing kind. 
Any other time, with the same canvas, I should have succeeded 
better; so I am unhappy, out of sorts, miserable, and if 
Julian had not cheered me up a little in the composition, I 
should have thrown myself on the ground in despair. Every 
Saturday's emotion costs me dearly. If the professors could 
suspect the torments I undergo they would not have the 
courage to say anything. 

Saturday, October 25th. — My painting is " better, much 
better." The other day we did the hour's sketch for places, 
and this morning they were exhibited in the little room, where 
Tony shuts himself up. He refuses absolutely to number 
them, saying that it is impossible; that an hour's work is of 
no account, and finally that he will put numbers by chance 
with his back turned. If it were not serious it would be 
amusing, for we were listening at the door. 

" Mademoiselle Marie," said he, "you are young. I might 
have placed you first; that means nothing. Another time you 
will give me your week's studies, according to which I will 
place you. This way is not common sense." 

With No. 3 I shall have a very good place for the compe- 
tition. 

Gambetta has returned to Paris. 

Thursday, October 30M. — France is a charming and amus- 
ing country. It has riots, revolutions, fashions, wit, grace, 
elegance — all that gives charm to life — the unforeseen. But 
you must not look for a serious government, nor a virtuous man 
(in the ancient meaning of the word), nor a marriage of love, 
nor even true wit. They are very strong, the French painters; 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 455 

but with the exception of Gericault, and in our time, Bastien- 
Lepage, the divine inspiration is lacking. And never, never, 
never will France produce what Italy and Holland have pro- 
duced in their special directions. 

A fine country for gallantry and pleasure, but — but never- 
theless the other countries, with their solidly respectable 
qualities, are often tiresome. If, however, I complain of 
France it is because I am not married. France for young 
girls is an infamous country; yes, infamous is not too strong. 
It is impossible to exhibit more cold cynicism in the wedding 
of two beings than is done here when a man and a woman 
are married. 

Commerce, trade, speculation, are honorable words applied 
properly, but applied to marriage they are infamous, and still, 
they are the most appropriate in speaking of French marriages. 

Saturday, November 8th. — I have finished the portrait of the 
co?icierge. It is very like. They feel great joy in the room. 
Her daughter, stepson, grandchildren, and sister are all in 
ecstasy. 

Unfortunately Tony did not share their enthusiasm. He 
began by saying that it was not bad, but that it was not as 
good as it should have been. I can not deny that I have not 
as much the gift of painting as of drawing. Drawing, con- 
struction, form, come of themselves. The pictorial side of my 
character does not develop quickly enough. He says I lose 
time in this way. I must stop, he says, and prepare myself. 

"You are wasting your time, it is evident; and since you 
are much gifted, since you show great taste, I am sorry." 

" It does not please me either, Monsieur, but I do not know 
what to do about it." 

"I have wished to talk it over. with you for a long while. 
We must try all possible means, perhaps it is only necessary 
to give you a few hints." 

" Tell me what I must do, must I draw from a copy, from 
plaster, or from still life? I will do whatever you prescribe." 



456 JOURNAL Of MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" You will do all I tell you to? well, then, we are certain to 
find a way out. Come and see me on Saturday, and we will 
speak of it." 

I ought to have gone on a Saturday long ago, all the 
students do it. He is a good fellow. 

Monday, November lof/i. — I went to church yesterday. I go 
from time to time to show that I am not a nihilist. 

I say very often, laughingly, that life is only a transition 
state. I wish I could believe it, to console me for my misery, 
my brutal sufferings, my unworthy doubts and fears. 

The whole world is such a sham. I feel so much disgust 
and astonishment at shams every day, that I know myself free 
from such sickening meanness. 

Friday, November i^th. — If for several days I have written 
nothing, it is because there has been nothing interesting to 
write. 

Thus far I have been charitable to my fellow-beings. I 
have neither said nor repeated evil things. I have always 
defended those who were attacked in my presence, from the 
selfish feeling that one day they might do as much for me. I 
have defended even those I did not know, praying God to 
make them do the same for me. I never had a serious idea 
of hurting anyone, and if I wished for wealth or power, it was 
with ideas of generosity, goodness, and charity whose breadth 
astounds me. But that did not succeed. I shall continue to 
give 20 sous to the beggars in the street, because the poor 
souls bring tears to my eyes, but I fear I shall become ill- 
tempered. 

It would be beautiful to remain good, though much tried and 
unhappy. But it would be amusing to become cross, bad, 
backbiting, harmful/ since it is all the same in the eyes of 
God, and He notices nothing. Besides, we must learn to 
believe that God is not what we imagine Him to be. God is per- 
haps Nature herself, and all the events of life are governed 
by chance, which at times brings about strange coincidences 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 457 

and events which compel a belief in a Providence. As to our 
prayers to God, our faith in Him, our conversations with 
Him, I have learned to my cost that they are worse than 
useless. 

To feel one's power, to have strength to move heaven and 
earth, and to be nothing! I do not complain aloud, but all 
these struggles are written on my face. People say that these 
things are of no consequence so long as we keep silent, but 
they come again and again to the surface. 

Saturday, November \$th. — I admire Zola, but there are 
some things of which everybody speaks which I can neither 
bring myself to say, nor even to write. I have no hesitation 
in talking slang occasionally, but there are certain filthy things 
(I do not mean immoral) that disgust me. 

Wednesday, November 19th. — Robert-Fleury came this even- 
ing: and besides giving me good advice, we passed a pleasant 
evening around the samovar and in my studio, the more so as 

| he explained to me very clearly how to manage the lamps. 
Tony is not paid, nor in any way pecuniarily interested; he is 
too, a man of standing; he repeated this evening what he 
told Madame Breslau, that of all the students, her daughter 
and myself alone had unusual gifts. The rest amounted to 
nothing. He spoke of each one, and it amused me to see the 
way in which he treated the conceited girls. 

Of me he only spoke well, when I went out of the room. 

i But he insisted on my continuing, adding that he was certain 
of my reaching a good result; that for an amateur I already 
showed talent, but that I might look much higher; that with 
continual guidance I should make greater progress; that he 
would take special charge of me; and he advised me not to 
work all the time at the studio, but occasionally to have a 
model at home, and to devote the evening to sculpture. He 
will come and give me the first hints, and some night he will 
bring Chapu. 

In a word, I am quite under his wing. So to recompense 



458 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

him a little, I ordered my portrait, a small size; but it spoils 
my happiness. I fear it may be too dear. 

He has been as kind as possible all the evening, talking and 
advising. What tires me is to make my copies. 

Saturday, November 22a 7 . — I went to take him my copy. 
" It is not large enough; you have not got enough confidence." 
I will do more next week — two of Rubens' heads copied by 
the father of Robert-Fleury, who was a great artist, and then 
a small painting by him, but original. 

As I admired greatly the sketch he made for the ceiling of 
the Luxembourg (I mean Tony), he offered it to me in the 
most graceful way, saying that it was a great pleasure to him 
to give it to a connoisseur who possessed appreciation. 

" But, Monsieur, there can be no lack of people who appre- 
ciate your work." 

" Possibly; but it is not the same thing." 

I am getting braver, and have almost lost my fear of him. 
After having seen him once or twice a week for two years at 
the studio, it seems funny actually to chat with him, and that 
he should help me on with my cloak. A little more and we 
shall be a pair of friends. If it were not for the portrait I 
should be happy, for my master is as good as possible to me. 

Monday, November 24///. — We went to invite Julian to dinner, 
and he made twenty thousand excuses, saying that he would 
thereby lose all authority over me and there would be no way 
to get along; all the more that the least sign of politeness to me 
would seem like a shameless favoritism. They would say that 
we ask him to dinner, and that I can do what I like with him 
because I am rich. The good man is right, and it might lead 
to his treating me worse than I deserved. The Spaniard 
caused Breslau to be rude to me by continually saying that 
she was my maid. 

Tuesday, November 2 5//?. — The studio at No. 37 has been 
hired and is almost finished. 

I passed the day there to-day; it is very large, with gray walls, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 459 

I carried there two shabby Gobelin tapestries, which cover the 
end wall, a Persian carpet, some Chinese mats, a large square 
Algerian divan, a dais for the model, a lot of odd pieces of 
different materials, and some large satinette draperies of a 
warm, undecided color. 

I took over, too, a great many casts. The Venuses of Milo, 
of Medicis, and of Nimes; the Apollo and the Faun of 
Naples, a cast of a body showing the muscles, several bas 
reliefs, etc., a portmanteau, a fountain, a mirror which cost 
4 francs and 25 centimes, a 32-franc clock, a chair, a stove, a 
chest of drawers with the top arranged for a color-box, a full 
tea-set, an inkstand and a pen, a pail, a bucket, and a quan- 
tity of canvases, caricatures, studies, and sketches. 

To-morrow I will unpack some drawings, but I fear they 
will make my painting look poor. I have also a flayed arm 
and a leg, life-size, a skeleton, and a box of carpenter's tools. 
I must get an Antinous. 

Wednesday ', December 2$th. — We went to call on P&re Didon 

i at the Dominican Monastery. Need I tell you that Pere Didon 

is the preacher whose fame has been daily growing for the last 

ten years and of whom, just now, all Paris is talking. He 

I expected us. As soon as we arrived they went to tell him, 

and we waited in the reception-room, full of windows, with a 

J table, three chairs, and a pretty little stove. I saw his portrait 

yesterday, so I knew that he had splendid eyes. 

J He was very amiable, very polite, very handsome in his beauti 

i ful gown of white wool, which reminded me of the dresses I 

used to wear. Without the tonsure his head would be of the 

J same type as Cassagnac's, but more intelligent, and with 

more honest eyes; his attitude, too, is more natural though 

very dignified; his face is beginning to become heavy, and he 

has. the same disagreeable distorted something about the 

1 mouth as Cassagnac; but very distinguished, without the outre 

j charm of the Creole, a dull complexion, a fine forehead, the 

] head well carried; adorably white and beautiful hands, and 



460 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

a manner which is cheerful and full of good humor. I 
would like to see him with a mustache. 

Plenty of wit in spite of a great deal of assurance. It is 
easy to see that he knows the extent of his celebrity, that he is 
accustomed to be worshiped, and that h£ is sincerely happy 
over his renown. Mere M — naturally warned him of the 
wonder he would see, and we spoke about making his portrait. 

He did not refuse; but said it would be difficult, almost 
impossible for a young girl to paint the portrait of Pere Didon. 
He is so much sought after, and so much is said about him. 

But that is precisely why I wish to do it, idiot! 

I was introduced as a fervent admirer. This was the first 
time I had ever seen him, but he is just what I had fancied 
him to be, with his inflections of voice passing from the most 
caressing tones to outbursts which are almost terrifying, even 
in simple conversation. 

He promised to come and see us, and, for a moment, I was 
satisfied with that; but it was stupid and false. What I wish 
now is, for him to be willing to pose. There is nothing in the 
world that would suit so admirably my rdle of ambitious artist. 

Thursday \ December 26th. — We went for a sleigh-ride with 
Madame G — . 

The evening ended in a farce; the princess, Alexis, and 
Blanc went off to the Varieties, and we (Dina, the Count de 
Toulouse, and I) extracted a champagne supper from the side- 
board, and having supped, we arranged four places about the 
table. I poured water with some white wine into the empty 
champagne bottle which I carefully recorked, and played a 
similar trick with the foie gras. They will all come back 
to supper. 

I wish them a good appetite! 

Sunday, December \\th. — Berthe came to fetch me, and with 
Bojidar we went off on foot to explore the Latin Quarter, 
Place Saint Sulpice, Rue Mouffetard, Rue de Nevers, the 
Morgue, Rue des Anglais, etc. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 461 

We rode in a street car for a quarter of an hour, then 
walked again, and kept it up from 3 to 7. There is nothing 
more adorable than old Paris; it recalls Rome, and Dumas' 
novels, and " Notre Dame de Paris," with Quasimodo, and a 
heap of charming ancient things. 

We bought chestnuts at a street corner, and then passed 
twenty minutes in one old shoe-shop, where we spent nearly 
9 francs, and in another, where they were almost rude to 
us because I bargained with them. " How, Madame, you 
haggle about 7 francs, and you would not hesitate about 
paying 200 for a fur cloak!" — the one I had on, by the way, 
was worth 2,000. 

In turning a corner, as our shoes made no noise, we let 
Bojidar pass on, and hid in a doorway; but he soon found 
us, and we went to two express companies to order two large 
wagons with four horses to carry Monsieur A — 's furniture. 
Berthe quietly gave particulars: Two grand pianos, a bath, 
side-boards with double mirrors, crockery, a billiard table, 
etc. Afterward, we wanted to go in everywhere, and be 
saucy to everybody; but it was 7 o'clock. We had to take a 
cab; but we were scarcely in, when the horse fell, and we got 
out again. They put the poor beast on his legs, and we 
started once more. 

I have not spoken of a very innocent couple who were 
with us in the street car. We made them stare by telling 
all sorts of stories such as the one of the young girl, who, in 
a collision on a railroad, had such a severe shock that her 
knees were forced through her chest and came out through 
her back. 

Sunday, December 2%>th. — Paul is going to be married. I 
give my consent. I will tell you why. She adores him, and 
wants to marry him very much. She is of tolerably good 
family, well known, of the same neighborhood, rich enough, 
pretty, and, to judge from her letters, has a pleasing char- 
acter; and then, she wishes it. It may be that she is a little 



462 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

more excited about it because Paul is the son of a marshal of 
the nobility and has fashionable relations in Paris. All the 
more reason why I should consent. Thanks to Rosalie's 
negligence, my letter to Paul never reached him. Mamma 
has agreed to it. The young lady sent this telegram: 

" Delighted. Happy. Thanks to mamma on my knees. Come back 
soon. Alexandrine." 

They say that the poor little girl is afraid of the Parisian 
part of the family, and of me, so proud, haughty, and stern. 
But it is not I who will say no, though I have never loved as 
she loves. I would not have it on my conscience to cause 
chagrin to any one. It is easy to say .that one is this or that, 
and that one is becoming bad; but when the opportunity pre- 
sents itself to give pain to a fellow-being, I do not even think 
twice. If I suffer torture, shall I cure it by torturing others? 
It is from no innate goodness that I am good, but because if 
I were not, it would weigh on my conscience, and that would 
torment me. Truly, selfish people should do only good; evil- 
doing makes one too unhappy. Well, every one to his taste! 
Besides, Paul will never be anything but a gentleman farmer. 
Wednesday, December 31^/. — I think that I am going to be 
ill. I am so weak I could cry for nothing. We went to the 
Magasin du Louvre, when we came out of the studio. It 
needs Zola to describe this exasperating, busy, disgusting 
crowd, running, bustling, with nose ahead and wandering 
eyes. It made me feel nervous and faint. Mamma sent to 
the beautiful (heaven forgive me) Alexandrine Pachtenko a 
simple and appropriate letter; and this is what I wrote, on 
smooth, white paper, with a little M surmounted by a coro- 
net in gold. 

" Dear Mademoiselle: — My brother will bring you mamma's consent. I 
pray for your happiness, and hope that you will make our dear Paul as happy 
as he deserves to be. Looking- forward to the pleasure of welcoming you 
among us, I embrace you cordially. 

" Marie Bashkirtseff.'' 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 463 

What else could I say? Paul, built like a Hercules, a 
handsome man, might make a better marriage; this is the 
one he chooses. I accept it for the young girl's sake. 

What a sad ending of the year! I think I will go to bed 
at ii so that I may be asleep at midnight, instead of 
tiring myself out in looking for good luck. 



i88o. 



Thursday, January ist. — I have been to the studio this 
morning, so that, having worked on the first of the year, I 
shall work all the year. Afterward we paid some visits and 
went to the Bois. 

Paul left this evening at 7. Mamma alone went with 
him to the train. Seeing people off saddens me. I let him 
go without more emotion than if he had gone for a walk, 
and if I had gone to the station I should certainly have 
shed tears. 

Saturday, January 3d. — I cough continually;' but, by a 
miracle, instead of it making me unsightly, it gives me an air 
of languor which suits me. 

Monday, January $th. — Well, things go badly! I have 
begun to work again, but as I did not have a complete rest I 
feel an intense languor and discouragement. And the Salon 
so near! I talked about it to Julian, the great, and we 
agree about it, more especially is this his opinion, that I am 
not ready. 

Let us see; I have worked for two years and four months 
without deducting lost time and traveling. Not much; yet, in 
one sense, a great deal! I have not worked hard enough. I have 
lost time. I have relaxed my energies. I — in a word, I am not 
ready. " The pricks of a pin drive you mad," said Edmond, 
" but you can stand a heavy blow from a club." It is true. 
One eternal comparison — Breslau. She began in June, 1875. 
That gives her four and a half years, and two years at Zurich 
or Munich; total, six years and a half, not deducting travel or 
lost time, as I had to do. She had painted two years before 

(464) 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 465 

she exhibited. I have painted for a year and six months and 
I could not exhibit with as much honor as she gained. 

As far as I am concerned, that would be nothing. I could 
wait. I am courageous, and if they tell me to wait a year, I 
answer sincerely: " It is well. " But my public, my family; 
they will no longer believe in me! I might exhibit, but what 
Julian wants is that I should paint a sensational portrait, and 
I should do that poorly. This is what it is to get on a high 
horse. There are those in the studio five times less strong 
than I. They exhibited, and no notice was taken, that is true. 
But what shall I do? " You need neither lessons nor orders of 
50 or 100 francs; you must make a sensation. It would be 
altogether unworthy to exhibit something like the others 
have done/' 

That is also my opinion; but my public, the family, and 
friends in Russia? 

Do you know Julian says I draw ten times better than 
Manet, and then adds that I can not draw a bit; " You ought 
to do better!" 

I am much annoyed and want to rid myself of the whole 
business. 

Madame G — came to inquire for me, for, do you know, I 
am barking like a dog. 

'Saturday, January ijt/i, — The doctor says that my cough 
is purely nervous; he may be right, for I have caught no cold. 
I have no sore throat, no pain in my chest. I simply strangle 
and feel a pain in my right side. However, I go to my room 
at 11, and, though I am hoping to fall sick, so that I shall not 
be obliged to go to the ball, I dress. I am beautiful. 

Tuesday, January 20th. — On returning from the studio I 
learned that Madame G — had been here expecting to find me 
in my room, and she was furious because I do not take care of 
myself as old people do. And then, the tickets promised for 
to-morrow were given to Madame de Rothschild. 

I would readily give io,ooq francs for a perpetual card of 
30 



466 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

admission. It would be such a relief not to have to ask for 
tickets, to be independent. 

Barren aspirations, barren and miserable intrigues, barren 
discussions with my family, barren evenings passed in talking 
of what I would like, without making a single step toward 
accomplishing it, barren and miserable efforts! 

Saturday \ January $ist. — To-night, Saturday, we went to 
the concert and ball given under the patronage of Queen 
Isabella, for the benefit of those who suffered by the inunda- 
tions in Murcia. The Queen was present at the concert, and 
afterward came into the ball-room and stayed an hour. 

I do not altogether like dancing. It is not amusing to feel 
one's self in the arms of a man. In short it is a matter of 
indifference to me, for I have never understood those troubles 
caused by waltzing, of which novels speak. 

In dancing, I only think of the lookers-on. 

Thursday ', February $th. — I would like to do every day as 
I have done to-day; work from 8 to 12, and from 2 to 5. At 
5 they brought the lamp, and I drew until half-past 7. 

From 7 to 8, dressing; at 8, dinner; reading and sleep, 
till 11. 

Still, to work from 2 to half-past 7 without stopping is, per- 
haps, too fatiguing. 

Tuesday \ February 10th. — I have had a long conversation 
with Father Julian about my Salon picture. I submitted two 
ideas, of which he approves. I will draw both; it will take 
three days, and then we will choose. I am not strong enough 
to make a brilliant success of a man's portrait — a thankless 
task — but I have the strength to execute a figure life-size and 
nude, the thing which is the goal, says Julian, of all who feel 
they have talent. This man amuses me; he pictures a great 
future for me; he will make me do this and that, if only I 
will be "wise," and since our last talk, I am " wise." Next 
year I will paint a portrait of some celebrated man — and a 
picture. " I want you to rise from the ranks all at once," 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 467 

For this year, I, the lucky one, have selected this: A- woman 
sitting at a table, her chin resting on her hand, and her 
elbow on the table. She is reading a book, a blaze of 
light on beautiful blonde hair. Title: "The Question of 
Divorce," by Dumas. This book is just out, and the question 
is exciting everybody. The other picture is simply Dina in a 
white china crape skirt, sitting in a large, old-fashioned chair, 
her arms hanging down with interlocked fingers. A very simple 
pose, but so graceful that I hastened to sketch it one evening 
when, quite by chance, she had thrown herself into the attitude, 
It is somewhat in the style of Recamier, and to prevent the 
chemise looking immodest I shall add a colored sash. In this 
second idea, what tempts me is the complete simplicity and 
the fine bits of painting. Oh, it will be truly delicious! 

To-day I am in the seventh heaven. I feel myself altogether 
superior, great, happy, and capable. I believe in a future. 
In short, all is well. 

Monday, February \6th.— We have been to visit the Queen, 
who was very kind. 

I am continually looking for a heap of things for my pic- 
ture. 

This evening at the Frangais, the first performance of Sar- 
dou's " Daniel Rochat." Quite an event. We had an excellent 
box with six seats. The audience was superb — all society and 
the members of the government. 

As to the piece, I must see it again, but it seems to me that 
there are tiresome parts. There is quite a Swiss atmosphere 
about it. But there was so much noise, applause, hissing, 
approval, and protest, that one could only hear the half of 
what the actors said. The hero is a great orator, a sort of 
atheistic Gambetta; the heroine a young girl, an Anglo- 
American, Protestant, very liberal and a Republican, but a 
believer. 

You can imagine how much can be made of such a subject 
at the present time. 



468 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Wednesday, February 2$th. — While running after models at 
Leonie's I have made the acquaintance of almost the entire 
Baudouin family. It is Zola pure and simple, the Zola of 
Nana; that is the name I give Leonie. A mixture of sim- 
plicity and astonishing perversity. 

At present she does not pos^. " I posed when I did not 
know what I was doing. It is not proper to pose. I am at 
a dressmaker's. It is not amusing, but he wishes it." " Who 
is he?" "My friend, for I live with a gentleman." 

And her sister tells me that she is crazy about him, especially 
since he has taken to beating her. 

Sunday, February 29th. — Julian came to see my picture. 
He is very pleased with it, and has spoken to Tony, who 
will come also; he is very, very busy, but he will come with 
pleasure when I let him know. 

Wednesday, March 3d. — From this time I shall have to stop 
going out evenings, to be able to rise without fatigue and 
work from 8 o'clock. 

I have only sixteen days left. 

Friday, March iph. — Julian came again to see my picture. 
He finds the plush-covered table, the book, and the flowers, 
very good. "The rest will come; the whole thing has^y it 
is striking." I, who wept this morning, came home at 6, 
consoled and happy, and I find mamma in tears, with two tele- 
grams, one from my father. 

If mamma leaves to-morrow, Dina will go with her. I have 
only a week. I shall never be able to find a model; and even 
if I found one to-morrow, I should have only six days, and it 
is not possible; so I have lost all, and I will not hide from 
you that I weep from disappointment, and also because 
nothing succeeds with me. I get an idea — a sensational sub- 
ject, which must have an effect in spite of the imperfection of 
execution, and which would give me at once what I might not 
be able to have otherwise in a year's time; and now all is at 
an end. Everything falls to pieces. The work is only half 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 469 

done, and it must be abandoned. This is, indeed, misfortune. 
Think of me what you will, but Paul's romantic troubles 
make no impression upon me, and my own disappointment 
fills me with despair and exasperation. I do not see how I 
can explain it. There is another motive for it than egotism; 
and even should it be egotism, surely, I, am unhappy enough 
— forlorn enough to excuse my being selfish. 

Then all the dreams for this year vanish. I must wait a 
whole year longer. Do you think that seems little? I suffer 
so much every day. I hoped to find consolation in my paint- 
ing, and you see how it all turns out. 

And my poor painting is sacrificed; my ambitions disap- 
pointed; the pleasure I might have had, lost or postponed. 
Can any of these things console or save Paul and his fiancee 
away yonder? 

Useless sacrifices and misfortunes are triply painful. 

Now all is upset and spoiled; but for them, all will come 
right; they will be married. A month sooner or later matters 
nothing. Perhaps delay will be best for both of them. 
Whilst for me it is necessary to move quickly. Eight days 
lost will put me back a whole year. But, after all, what can 
I expect? It is absurd, perhaps, but I am desperate enough 
to weep over it, as much as I did for the Prince Imperial. 
They will think that my eyes are red for Paul; the simple- 
tons! 

Each person has his own interests to look after. His are 
his betrothed, love, his little farm, and Poltava. For me it is 
quite another thing — another thing, which seems to embrace 
everything I desire or lack; every human joy; all happiness; 
compensation for all my suffering. I must wait another 
year, when for me, more than anyone else in the world, life is 
a race against disease. 

Monday, March i$th. — It was all much ado about nothing. 
All is arranged. On Saturday, came reassuring telegrams. 
Nothing serious has happened. 



470 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I have written to Tony to come, but I am terribly afraid. 

I fear so much what Tony will say. It seems to me so 
presumptuous to exhibit, although Julian said that if all the 
exhibitors had my strength of handling, it would be a very 
fortunate thing. It seems to me that I shall be overwhelmed 
with shame when he comes to see the picture. I am not sure 
that I shall dare — and yet, I can not go away if he comes. 
It is incredible that I should say that, for if I said it aloud 
they would think that I was joking. 

Friday, March igth. — At a quarter before 12, Tony came. 
Why did I not begin sooner? It is very pretty; it is charm- 
ing. What a pity, etc. In a word, he is reassuring, but I 
must ask for an extension of time. 

It might be sent as it is, but it is not worth while. " That is 
my private, sincere opinion. Ask for an extension and you 
will do something really good." Then he rolled up his 
sleeves, took the palette and put in a few dashes here and 
there to show me where light was wanted. But I will retouch 
it all, if I get the extension. He stayed more than two 
hours. He is a pleasant fellow. I felt amused and was in 
such a good temper that I cared little what became of the 
picture. Really, those few touches of his are an excellent 
lesson. At 2, I took Dina with me and we went to the Cham- 
ber of Deputies. I inquired for Monsieur Andrieux (to 
approve of my petition to Monsieur Turquet, the under-sec- 
retary of the Beaux Arts). After waiting an hour in vain, we 
went to the prefecture of police, but he was not there; then 
I carried a letter to Doctor X — , in which I explained what I 
wanted. Returning home, I found that the prefect of 
police had called to place himself at our disposal, and that 
Julian was in 37 with mamma. Julian was carried away 
with the picture — "You are quite man-like; nothing aston- 
ishes me in you." He said all these fine things before Madame 
Simonides, who had come to see the picture, and before 
Rosalie, too, before I came in. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 471 

I was already delighted and full of joy before even I knew 
the result of the steps taken by my mother, who had written 
to Turquet. I have it, I have my extension of six days! I 
am not sure whom I ought to thank; but this evening I am 
going to the opera with the Gavinis. I shall thank Monsieur 
Gavini; I believe that I owe it to him. I am radiant, tri- 
umphant, and happy! 

But to return to my painting. Julian is raving about it. 
Tony also declared that it is good in tone, harmonious, 
pretty, energetic; and Julian adds that it is seductive, and 
that the Swedish colorists of the studios are idiots to think 
that successful coloring lies in a process. 

" Here is a naturalist who has done an agreeable thing — 
not agreeable in the softer sense of the word — a truly seduc- 
tive thing." 

I shall finish it, then. 

A grand day! 

Saturday, March 20th. — -I went out to get through the 
formalities of tickets, etc. At the Salon there was quite a 
crowd of people and pictures, and drays and artists. I went 
to the Under-Secretary of State to get my ticket signed, the 
extension being granted to Mademoiselle Bashkirtseff and my 
picture being signed Russ. Turquet was very polite. He said 
that he had heard of my picture, and after that I can not 
remember all the errands I did. 

Sunday, March 21st. — Saint-Marceaux was here to give me 
advice. He is pleasing, but made me rather uncomfortable. 
He has an absent manner, walks quickly, and speaks quickly 
— a bundle of nerves. I am like that myself; but all the same 
he makes me uncomfortable, although he only spoke well of 
the picture. But the difficulty is, when people say nothing I 
am unhappy, and when they praise me it seems to me they are 
treating me like a little girl and are laughing at me. But 
this evening I am not so cheerful as yesterday, because the 
right arm is too long. It is two centimeters too long, and 



472 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I — I the correct draughtsman — am humiliated before a 
sculptor like Monsieur Saint-Marceaux. 

Monday, March 22J. — Tony is astonished that I have done 
so much in so short a time. 

" For, really, it is the first time you have made any appli- 
cation of your studies." 

That is so. 

" Well, it is not at all bad, do you know." 

He took off his overcoat, seized a palette, and painted me 
a hand — the lower one — in his peculiar whitish tone. 

(He touched the hair, and I have entirely repainted it. I 
did the same for the hand.) Then he worked a little on the 
hand, and we talked. 

After all, leaving out the background, the hair, and the 
plush, it is wretched painting. I can do better — that is 
Tony's opinion, also; but he is nevertheless content, and says 
that if there were any chance of its being refused at the 
Salon he would be the first to tell me not to send it. He says 
he is astonished to see what I have done. It is well-con- 
ceived, well-arranged, harmonious, elegant, and graceful. 

Oh, yes; yes, indeed. I am very displeased with the flesh. 
When I think that they will say it is my style! I am obliged 
to have recourse to glazing, I who delight in painting 
frankly and simply! I assure you that it distresses me to 
exhibit something the execution of which I am dissat- 
isfied with — something which is so different from my usual 
work. It is true I have never done anything which has sat- 
isfied me; but this is wretched, it is all patched up. Tony 
says that this time Breslau shows the influence of Bastien- 
Lepage. She feels my influence as I feel hers. Tony is as 
kind as possible. And they say I might have done better! 
Accursed modesty! Wretched lack of confidence! If I 
had not allowed myself to tremble and to ask myself: To 
be or not to be? But I will not commit myself to the absurd- 
ity of bewailing an accomplished fact, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 473 

Why should I think of Italy to-night? That is a burning 
thought which I always seek to avoid. I have stopped my 
Roman readings, they excited me too much, and I have fallen 
back on the French Revolution and Greece. But Rome! 
Italy! when I think of that sun, that atmosphere, of all 
their beauties, I become insane! 

Even Naples — oh, Naples at night! And what is curious 
is that there is no man in the case. When I think that I 
might be there I become insane. So much do I feel this, that 
even the scenery in " The Dumb Girl " causes me a sort of 
emotion. 

Wednesday, March 2\th. — Tony came, but found no fault 
with my painting. When 6 o'clock came we were still chat- 
ting. 

" There will certainly be in the Salon " said Tony, " things 
twenty times inferior to yours, but, nevertheless, there is no 
absolute certainty of your picture being accepted, for the 
poor committee examines 600 a day, and they frequently 
refuse in disgust what they have looked at in a bad temper; 
but you have in your favor that your picture is striking, and 
is of a generally agreeable tone. And then, too, Lefebvre, 
Laurens, and Bonnat are great friends of mine." 

What a good fellow is Tony! and I like him all the more 
that I do not believe he is happy. The authority of his 
father's name and his own growing talent gave him the medal 
of honor in 1870. Then little by little all is forgotten, all is 
effaced, and there arises an enemy who, having influence with 
Albert Wolf of the Figaro, causes this journalist to become 
hostile. In addition, he does not sound his own trumpet, 
and while men like Cot make large portraits at high prices, 
he makes little ones which bring money, but no satisfaction. 

That good Tony has showered sober, but discriminating 
encouragement on me. I can, if I wish, make a very fine 
painter, and by that you understand, he does not mean as 
mamma does, the sort of painter I am now, but such a painter 



474 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHRIRTSEFF. 

as himself, Bonnat, Carolus, Bastien, etc. I must make serious 
studies, paint torsos at home to prepare myself to paint 
pictures. I must think of nothing but painting; give myself 
up to it altogether. I have an admirable organization. Of 
the women, there are only Breslau and myself who can paint 
the nude. Few artists draw an academy sketch as she or I do. 
To sum up, it is astonishing what I have done in eighteen 
days, after two years of study. I must not stop there; these 
minor triumphs are nothing. 

Robert-Fleury says that I must look further, be more 
earnest. I can rise as high as I please. Genius is not 
acquired, but to gain real knowledge one must work, and 
above all, not believe in the compliments that are paid; he 
himself speaks only the truth. - 

"But, Monsieur, if you said anything else, I should be 
inconsolable." 

" Go ahead, work, apply yourself, and you may become 
whatever you desire to be." 

Thursday y March 25th. — I am giving the last touches to 
the picture; but I can work no longer, for there is no more 
to do, unless I should do it all over again. It looks as if it 
had been finished in a hurry. 

The young woman is sitting before a table covered with an 
old green plush cover of a very rich tone, and, resting on her 
right hand, with her elbow on the table, is reading a book 
beside which lies a bunch of violets. The white of the book, 
the tone of the plush, and the flowers beside the arm form a 
happy contrast. The woman is in deshabille of very light-blue 
damask, with a neckerchief of muslin and old lace. Her left 
hand lies naturally in her lap, and holds a paper-knife. 

The chair is in deep plush, and the background is an otter- 
skin. The background and the table are very good. It is a 
three-quarter face. Dina's adorable hair, golden blonde, is 
loose; the shape of the head is clearly outlined, and the 
slightly disheveled hair falls over her back. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 475 

At half-past 3, Monsieur and Madame Gavini came. " We 
thought it would be impossible to let Marie's picture leave 
without seeing it. It is the departure of a first child." What 
good people they are. Gavini went to the Palais de V Industrie 
in the carriage, and two men carried the picture. It all made 
me feel hot, cold, and afraid, like a funeral. 

And then the great halls, the sanded sculpture-hall, the 
stairs, all made my heart beat. While they were getting my 
receipt and my number, Bonnat's portrait of Monsieur Grevy 
came in, but it was placed against a wall, and the light pre- 
vented me from seeing it. In the whole hall there are only 
Bonnat, I, and a frightful yellow background. The Bonnat 
seemed to me to be good, and I was quite astonished to 
find myself there. 

It is my first debut, an independent* and public act. I feel 
myself alone on a height surrounded by water. At last it is 
done; my number is 9,091. Mademoiselle Marie Constantin 
Russ. I hope it will be accepted. I have sent the number to 
Tony. 

Friday, March 26th. — We confessed before taking com- 
munion to-day. 

One priest confesses like an angel, that is, he is an intelli- 
gent man, a few words and it is finished; you know my ideas 
on the subject. I should have died of despair long ago, but 
for my belief in God; but, on the other hand, in formulas and 
traditions I have little faith. 

Wednesday, March 31^/. — I am out of sorts. I should have 
listened to Tony and taken some rest. I annoyed Julian by 
sending him the following note: 

" I, the undersigned, promise every week to complete a head and an acad- 
emy sketch, or a life-size study, but properly painted. If I fail of the above 
conditions, I authorize M. Rodolphe Julian, painter, to proclaim everywhere 
that I am absolutely unworthy of every sort of interest. Marie Russ." 

Then I went to Tony; but he had a model, and I only stayed 
a few minutes. 



47G JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" You have great gifts," said Tony; "you must really achieve 
something great!" 

" If you are idle, I answer for nothing," said Julian; "you 
are already behind; as to succeeding, you will succeed any- 
how after a fashion, but you must have phenomenal success. 
You must absolutely make a great effort for the next Salon. 
You ought to make a picture that shall amount to something; 
you must do so!" 

Wednesday, April jth. — I must not forget that Julian 
announced to me, this morning, that my picture is accepted. 
Curious, I feel no satisfaction. Mamma's joy annoys me. 
Such a success is not worthy of me. 

Saturday i April 10th. — I am not happy about my exhibit. 
There are four admission numbers. Breslau had a three. I 
have simply been admftted without number. If Breslau has 
only had three, it is right that I should have nothing. Ah, 
well! It will turn out all right. I have been neither compli- 
mented nor scolded about my head. It is not worthy of me. 
I must improve. I must! I must! I am ashamed to have 
exhibited this thing. It is rather pretty, but not worthy 
of me. 

Saturday, April ip/i. — I was a full hour with Tony this 
afternoon. I made the acquaintance of his father, who was 
very amiable, and who said that he drew for four years before 
he painted. His father gone, we talked, and I smoked a 
cigarette. As to the painting I had brought, he said it was 
good, and told me to go on. Julian also said that, except my 
Salon picture, it is the greatest effort I have made. 

Thursday, April 22d. — I suppose my picture will be badly 
hung and unnoticed, or else very prominent, and then it will 
bring me unpleasantness. They will say that it is only noisily 
pretentious, or conspicuously weak; how can I tell? 

Monday, April 26th. — I have no place in the studio. A 
charming American is going to pose forme, on condition that 
I give her the result. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSKI 1 . 477 

Her little figure enchants me, and it will be almost a good 
picture. I dream of an exquisite arrangement, and the darling 

polite enough to say that she will pose, and will be content 
with a little portrait, which I can do hereafter. 

If my picture had not been received in the Salon, the stu- 
dents would never have confidence enough to pose for me. 

Julian thinks that Tony worked on my picture, and you 
know how much Tony did. It was in too low a key, and he 
put in some touches, after which I conscientiously repainted 
the whole. As to the hand, he did draw it over, but the day 
before the last, I shortened the fingers, which made me do it 
all over again. So there is not even any of his drawing; he 
only showed me how I ought to do it. As a matter of fact, I 
did it honestly, and it is not very good, even now. 

This evening we went to the P — 's, people in the law, I think. 
They praised the Hotel d'Alcantara, which has the long and nar- 
row gallery looking over the Champs Elysees by a single win- 
dow. The hotel is curiously laid out, thanks to the long strip of 
ground which runs to the Champs Elysees, and is convenient 
for parties, although the gallery is very narrow. Decent, 
amiable people, but the society was peculiar, toilets of another 
century, and no one of any note. And my dear mother rose 
to present me to the Chilian or Mexican " who laughs;" he 
has a frightful grimace, which made him appear to -laugh in a 
sinister way continually. And with it all he has a large, round 
face. He is said to have twenty-seven millions, and mamma 
thinks that — Marry this man; a man almost without a nose? 
Horror! I would accept a plain man, an old man — they are 
all the same for me; but a monster, never! What would 
be the use of millions with this ridiculous creature? There 
were many acquaintances, but it was enough to put one 
asleep — amateurs who made you gnash your teeth with their 
music; a violinist to whom no one listened, and a good-looking 
man who sang the " Schubert's Serenade," after having thrown 
all around glances of victory, with one hand resting on the 



478 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

piano in a ridiculous attitude. I can not understand how a 
gentleman can make a clown of himself in a large party. 

The ladies,with their heads covered with that blonde powder 
which looks so dirty on the hair, seemed to have wigs of wad- 
ding, or to have rolled in straw. How ugly! how stupid! 

Tuesday, April 27th. — I almost ran to-day, as I was impatient 
to have my first sitting with the American. She is like Madame 
Recamier. I turned back her hair like Psyche's and drew her 
in a muslin chemise with short, puffed sleeves, a rose-colored 
ribbon below the breast, and a straw-colored scarf covering 
her arms. 

She is astonishingly slim for eighteen; as slight as if she 
were fifteen, of a radiant complexion, and with very white 
hands. 

Thursday, April 29th. — This evening we dined with the 
Simonides household. All is extraordinary in their house. 
I knew the wife at Julian's. The husband is good-looking 
and young; the wife is beautiful and more than thirty-five. 
They are very united, live quietly, see only a few artists, and 
execute extraordinary drawings and paintings, a sort of imi- 
tation renaissance. Subjects astonishing for their naivete: 
"The Death of Beatrice," "The Death of Laura" (the woman 
who concealed her lover's head in a pot, from which grew 
flowers), and all in the manner of centuries ago. Madame dresses 
in the style of the time of Boccaccio. To-night she wore a gown 
of white Japanese crape of adorable softness, long and tight 
sleeves, like those of the Virgin, with other sleeves knotted 
behind; the gown simple apd ~untrimmed; a waistband of 
ancient silver embroidery, which made her seem short; a 
bunch of pinks on her breast; pearls round her neck, and ear- 
rings and bracelets of old jewelry. With her pale complexion, 
her black and curly hair, and her gazelle eyes she seemed 
a fantastic spectre. She would be quite remarkable if she 
had only the sense to dress her hair simply, instead of wearing 
it like a hugh mop which gives her a Medusa's head. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE EASHKIRTSEFF. 479 

We had returned to the studio for a quarter of an hour on 
leaving the dining-room, where we had had a very good dinner, 
with flowers and fruit artistically arranged, and I was accom- 
panying Madame, who sang ancient classic Italian songs, 
when mamma came to take us to church. It is Passion week; 
but we arrived too late and I said my prayers at home. 

To-morrow is varnishing day. I will take the little Ameri- 
can because she has posed so well. 

Friday, April 2,0th. — My American, whose name is Alice 
B — , came at 10, and we set off together. I desired to go 
almost alone to see first where my picture is placed. So, on 
my way to the Salon, I was in a great state of fear, and fancy- 
ing the most dreadful things, so that they might not happen. 
It was all wasted; my picture is not yet h«ung. I found it 
at last, about noon, amid a thousand others, also unhung, 
but it was in the outer gallery where I had been already 
shocked to find Breslau placed. You know how Wolff treats the 
gallery; but still there are works of Renoir there, and other 
well-known artists A — exhibits a large and good portrait 
of Leon Say, not at all bad, very striking; but the hands 
look as if they had been done by Robert-Fleury, the 
father. May I be pardoned the suggestion, if it is not true. 
The fact is that Leon Say, having posed only for the head, it 
was easy to use assistance. The portrait is very well hung. 
As for Breslau, hung like me in the gallery and near the 
ceiling, she has done a poor piece of painting, or, at least, a 
thing exceedingly unpleasant to look at. It is Mgr. Viard's 
portrait. I believe that what ruined her was that she tried too 
much for delicacy of tone. All is gray. The background, which is 
like grayish wood in panels, the decorations of chapels 
and oratories, the chair, all are muddy; the head also is very 
muddy. 

But there are heads like that; by a different treatment, it 
would have been possible to make more of it. It must be 
admitted that there is good drawing and some breadth in the 



480 JOURNAL OF MARiE EASHKlRTSEFF. 

work on the hands. The other students are not worth the 
trouble of being looked at. 

As to Bastien-Lepage, the first thing that strikes one is an 
effect of space, of open air — Joan of Arc ( the real Joan of 
Arc, the peasant girl), resting against an apple tree, with one 
branch in her left hand, which, as well as the arm, is perfection. 
The right arm hangs by her side; it is an admirable piece of 
work. Her head thrown back, neck stretched, and eyes which 
look at nothing — clear, wonderful eyes. The head has a 
startling effect; it is the peasant, the daughter of the field, 
entranced, suffering from her vision. The fruit garden which 
surrounds the house in the background is nature itself, but 
there is something which is wrong. The perspective does not 
appear to be good; it seems to crowd forward and hurts 
the figure. 

The figure is sublime, and caused me so strong an emotion 
that, even as I write of it, I can scarcely restrain my tears. 

Tony's ceiling was very graceful, very good, and pleased 
me. 

These are the principal things for me. After dinner, I 
thought we were to visit the Salon as a family party; but no, 
my aunt was going to church, and mamma wanted to go, too, 
and it was only when they noticed how astonished and hurt I 
was that they decided to come, though unwillingly. I do not 
know if it is the modest place I. have attained which enrages 
them, but that is no reason, and it is very hard for me to 
have such relations. Finally, ashamed of her indifference, or 
for some feeling I can not name, mamma came, and we 
three, she, Dina, and I, met first all the people of the studios, 
then acquaintances, and then Julian. 

Saturday, May \st. — I have just had fearful, stupid, and use- 
less bad luck. To-morrow is Easter. This evening — or, rather, 
at night — we went to high mass, where were gathered the 
whole Roman colony, headed by all the members of the 
embassy. Elegance, beauty, and vanity all were represented. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 481 

It was a great review of Russian ladies and dresses, and 
everybody gossiped like magpies. 

Well, at the last moment, they brought me a new dress, 
which looked exactly like a clumsy bundle of old dirty gauze. 
In spite of this I went; but no one can ever know what rage 
it cost me. My figure was hidden in a badly made and 
crooked corsage; my arms spoiled by sleeves that were 
stupidly too large; in a word, a pretentious piece of work, 
and to make matters worse, the gauze — which I had seen only 
by day-light — at night looked actually dirty, 

What efforts it cost me not to tear it into ribbons and 
escape from the church! To be ill-dressed because you can 
not help it, is excusable; but to be able to be well-dressed 
and to show one's self such a monstrosity as I was to-night, is 
something horrible! Naturally, my hair showed my temper, 
it got out of order and my face burned. It was disgraceful. 

This morning I went to the Salon to see Julian's young man, 
and he promised to do the impossible. I was in black stuff, 
very simply made, but my fresh-looking face attracted much 
attention. 

And to-night! In the name of anything that you will, was 
it not a shame? 

Thursday, May 6th. — Great compliments from Julian on my 
painting. 

Friday, May ^th. — Madame Gavini came to-day to tell 
mamma that I fatigue myself too much. It is true; but it is 
not by work; not to be fatigued, I ought to go to bed at 10 or 
n, and I sit up till i, and wake at 7. 

Yesterday that idiot S— was the reason of it. I was 
writing and he came to speak tome; then he went to play 
cards with my aunt, and I waited up for him only to hear 
some foolish words bordering on love. He said " Good- 
night " twenty times, and twenty times I said to him " Go," 
and twenty times he begged permission to kiss my hand. I 
laughed, and finally I said: " Well, then kiss it, it is all the 

31 



482 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

same to me." Then he kissed my hand and I am pained to 
confess that it gave me pleasure, not on account of the object, 
but there were — many things, and one is a woman after all. 

This morning I still feel his kiss on my hand, for it was not 
the common kiss of politeness. 

Oh, young girls! 

Do you think I love this youth with large nostrils? No, 
indeed. Well, the affair with A — was the same thing. I 
made every effort to fall in love, and, with the help of the 
cardinals and the Pope, I excited myself; but not with true 
love. Alas, no. Well, since I am more than fifteen, and less 
stupid, I need invent nothing and the position becomes 
normal. 

The kiss on my hand displeased me; especially because it 
gave me pleasure. I do not wish to be so much like a woman, 
so I promise to myself to be very cold to S — ; but he is such 
a good fellow, so simple that I shall be stupid enough to play 
some comedy. It really is not worth while, I had better treat 
him like Alexis B — . That is what I shall do. Dina, he, 
and I stayed till n, Dina listening and S — and I reading 
verses and translating from the Latin. I was astonished to see 
how well educated he is — at least, much better educated than 
I. I have forgotten a great deal and he remembers very well 
all that he learned at school and college. I never thought he 
was so well educated. I would like to make a friend of 
him — No, he does not please me enough for that, but a sort 
of intimate acquaintance. 

Saturday, May %th. — When people speak softly, I can not 
hear them! This morning Tony asked me if I had seen any- 
thing by Perugino, and I said "no," without understanding. 

And when they told me of it afterward, I got out of it 
pretty badly by saying that in fact, I had never seen anything, 
and that it was better to confess ignorance. 

Tony was pleased with my head. Breslau asked permission 
to paint my model; I generously consented, and offered to the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 483 

gaping studio the touching spectacle of we two, sitting 
friendly side by side. What children they are! I laugh at all 
of it! 

Tony says I have begun well, and have only to continue 
in the same way. It looks as if I am racing with Breslau, and 
I have beaten her up to now. (We begin again, the week 
after next, in earnest.) 

That amuses all of them, and everybody wants to pose for 
me. I enraged that good Breslau by saying that my picture 
had found a purchaser at 1,500 francs, and that I am hung in 
the outside gallery. "It is sad," I continued, "but right, for 
my picture is not a good one. I am not ashamed to acknowl- 
edge it. I have had only two years' instruction. It is the 
first picture I have ever exhibited, and I had only two weeks 
to do it in. The administration has been relatively right. 
They have hung only the worst things in the famous gallery. 
There is not a single decent canvas there." 

Mo?iday, May 10th. — What is pleasing is, that when I wish 
to act contrary to my impulses, I have never yet succeeded. 
I have never even tried to struggle. All is limited to a fore- 
gone resolution, and a line of conduct never followed. I do 
everything on the moment's inspiration, as it pleases me, and 
as it comes. Oh, diplomacy! or, rather, honestly, it is disagree- 
able to me not to follow the promptings of my nature, and I 
do follow them. 

Thursday, May 13th. — I have such rumblings in the ears 
that I am obliged to make the greatest efforts to prevent 
people observing something amiss. 

Oh, it is horrible! With S — I can get on, because I sit 
near him, and when I wish, I can tell him that he bores me. 
The G — 's speak loud at the studio. They laugh, and tell me I 
am becoming deaf. I pretend that I am absent-minded, and 
laugh it off; but it is horrible. 

Sunday, May 16th. — I went alone to the Salon early. Only 
people who have cards were there. I had a long look at 



484 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

" Joan of Arc," and, above all, at Morot's " Good Samaritan." 
I sat before the Morot, and examined it with a glass. It 
pleases me more than any picture I have ever seen. Noth- 
ing is superfluous. All is simple, true, appropriate. All is 
painted from nature, and nothing in it recalls the atrocious 
academic and conventional beauties. It is adorable to look 
at. Even the head of the ass is perfect: the landscape, the 
mantle, and the toe-nails. It is happily conceived, and cor- 
rectly painted. 

The " Joan of Arc " has a sublime head. These two can- 
vases are in adjoining rooms. I went from one to the other. 
I looked at the Morot, and was thinking of my friend, S — , 
when he passed without seeing me, and when I went out I saw 
him from the garden, pointing out my picture to a person 
who looked like a journalist. 

And Saint-Marceaux's "Harlequin!" When last year's Salon 
was closed, I thought that the medal of honor had affected 
me, the work being no longer there to reassure me. At the 
end of six months, I was sure that I had exaggerated Saint- 
Marceaux, but the "Harlequin" reopens my eyes. The first 
day I stood quietly before it, not imagining whose it was. 
Such a thankless subject, but such talent. It is more than 
talent. He is a true artist, so they do not say so much about 
him as about others — sculpture manufacturers. They are all 
manufacturers compared to Saint-Marceaux. 

Tuesday, May 25th. — Madame Goup came for her portrait; 
then I drew a composition. 

A subject has taken hold of me — Mary Magdalen, and the 
other Mary, at the tomb of Christ. But, treated without 
conventionality, without piety, but as one thinks it really was. 

Thursday, May 27///. — How beautiful it is in the morning! 
Attention! I begin — 

First, I saluted the day, before the open window, with the 
harmonious sound of the harp, like the Priests of Apollo, 
and then thought of my two women at the sepulchre. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 485 

I should like to go* to Jerusalem, and paint the picture 
there, in the open air, with the native heads. 

Tuesday, June \st. — I think that atheists must be very 
unhappy when they are afraid. When I am afraid, I at once 
call on God, and all my doubts disappear. It is a species of 
egotism — a wretched sentiment; but I endeavor not to claim 
virtues I do not possess. I find it is stupid enough to spread 
out all one's weaknesses and vileness. In 1873 I went to the 
Universal Exhibition of Vienna, in the worst of the cholera, 
under the protection of these verses of Psalm xci. I copy 
them exactly: 

"He shall cover thee with His feathers, and under His wings shalt thou 
trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid 
for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; nor for the 
pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at 
noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy right hand; but it shall not come 
nigh thee." 

Yesterday I thought of those divine lines. I read them over 
with enthusiasm — with as much enthusiasm as in my child- 
hood. I did not foresee how they would be of help to me 
to-day. 

I have just made my will, it is placed in an envelope thus 
addressed: To M. Paul Bashkirtseff, Poltava; to be delivered 
into his own hands. Russia. 

"I will come and compel you, when I am dead, if you do 
not carry out my wishes. ,, 

S — stayed; it began with a simple chat. My aunt would 
not leave; her presence annoyed me, and I played the piano. 
He told me what gave me a chill. His sisters want him to 
marry, but he does not like the wife they have selected for 
him. 

"Then do not marry her; believe me, it would be madness." 

Later, we played cards aux betes, one of the favorite games 
of Russian servants. 

" You will marry Madame de B — ," I wrote on a book. 

u No, she is much too old," he answered in the same way. 



480 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Then we filled six pages with sentences it would be amusing 
to preserve. 

It is quite clear that he loves me. He adores me, and his 
conversation hovers around the burning subject. 

I forbade his joking, and he answered that it was I who 
was laughing at him. My aunt interrupted now and then, 
saying that it was time to go to bed, and I answered, that I 
was sick and going to die. 

After this singular correspondence, I am almost convinced 
that he loves me. To-night, on his part, there were very sig- 
nificant looks and hand-pressing under pretense that I was 
feverish, and that he was feeling my pulse. It will never 
come to anything, but I should like all the same to keep this 
youth, not knowing yet what I should do with him. I will tell 
him to ask mamma; that will gain time. Mamma will refuse — 
another delay — and then I know not what. It is really some- 
thing to know nothing. 

Monday, June 14th. — I delight in reading over my past life, 
as I have been doing to-day. 

I remember when C — entered. It was like a lightning flash. 
I can neither explain his manner nor my impressions. My 
whole being went out to him when I gave him my hand, 
and then I felt myself on wings, free from my carnal sur- 
roundings. And then I felt a fearful terror at seeing the 
hours pass so quickly! And I did not understand! It is a 
pity that the nature of these memoranda does not allow me 
to isolate remarkable facts. All is confused, and then — I 
have shown some affectation, to tell the truth, in discussing 
everything to prove that C — was not all the world to me. Only 
when I want to live the events over again, I am shocked to 
find them mixed up with the rest. But is it not so in life? 

However, there are things, events, men whom one would 
separate and inclose in a precious casket with a golden key. 

" When you feel yourself superior to him he will no longer 
dominate you," said Julian. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 487 

Perhaps it is the idea of having his portrait to paint which 
has made me work — who knows? 

Wednesday ', June 16th. — At 8 "o'clock we went to the Salon, 
where I met Saint-Marceaux. We exchanged common-places, 
and I said to him, stupidly: " You never come to see us." " I 
am so busy." It was so silly of me to seem to reproach him, 
and now I am afraid that Saint-Marceaux will be annoyed at 
having met me. You see I must attain to something, and men 
like Saint-Marceaux must be made to see something in me. 
Attention! I have only a few months, now, in which to paint 
my picture for the Salon. And I might go to St. Petersburg 
and marry some one! No, I will remain here and work, and 
go there in the winter of 1881 and 1882. Besides, that will 
be time enough. 

Yes, I will remain and work. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! You shall 
see that. It is an excellent decision, and to-morrow I will begin 
to devote myself entirely to the studio. 

Friday, June 1SH1. — I have worked all day. My model is 
so graceful and pretty, that I have put off from day to day 
commencing to paint; the preliminary sketch was so good 
that I feared to spoil it; but, on the whole, I am satisfied with 
my progress to-day. 

And in the evening S — came. I attributed his depression 
to his being in love, but it seems that there is something else; 
he is going to Bucharest or Lille, as director of his brother-in- 
law's bank. But above all, he wants to marry me. Ah! he 
still holds to that idea. I smiled, and told him that he was 
bold and presumptuous, and explained to him that I had no 
dowry, as my dowry would be only sufficient for pin-money, 
and that he would have to lodge me, feed me, and pay all my 
expenses. Poor fellow! I felt a little sorry for him all the same. 

I do not think that he is overjoyed to go. 

He kissed my hands a hundred times and begged me not to 
forget him. " You will think sometimes of me? Say, oh, J 
implore you, that you will think of me!" 



488 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"When I have time." 

But he asked me so many times that I was forced at last to 
give him a very faint "yes/' Ah, the farewells were tragic, on 
his side, at least! We were both near the door of the salon, 
and, to give him a pleasant memory of our parting, I gravely 
held out my hand for him to kiss, and then we shook hands. 
I remained a few moments in thought. I shall miss this boy. 
He will write to me, however. 

For several days Paris has gone mad over little pigs. They 
are said to bring good luck, and are made of gold, enamel, 
jewels, everything. For the last two days I have worn a 
copper one. At the studio they say that it is due to this pig 
that I have made a good bit of painting. Well, that poor 
Casimir wears, in memory of me, a little pig. 

I would like to give him the Gospel of St. Matthew, with 
this inscription: "The finest book in the world, and one 
which supplies every want of the soul. There is no need to 
be a sentimentalist or a bigot to find in it peace and consola- 
tion. Keep it as a talisman, and read a page every evening 
in memory of me, who have, perhaps, made you suffer some, 
and you will understand why it is the finest book in the world. ,, 
But does he deserve it? Would it not be better for him to 
limit himself to the little pig? In the first place, he would not 
understand St. Matthew. 

Sunday, June 20th. — I passed the morning at the Salon, 
which closes this evening. "The Good Samaritan'' has 
received the medal of honor. But Morot's picture out of the 
question, the medal of honor should not be so easy of attain- 
ment. However, it is not given to merit, but to the best work 
of the Salon. 

Bastien-Lepage's landscape is not perfect; it injures the 
figure; but what an exquisite figure! The head is absolutely 
unrivaled. Morot's picture almost wearied me to-day, while 
Bastien-Lepage — I went from one to the other, and then 
to a sleeping head by Henner, and a little nymph by the same 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 489 

artist. Henner is charm itself. It is not exactly nature, but 
it ought to be nature, and it is adorable. His " Nymphs in 
Twilight " is incomparable and inimitable. He does not vary, 
but he is always charming. His nudities at the Luxembourg 
are not equal to what he does now. His picture in last year's 
Salon I like better than anything I have seen of his. I longed 
so to buy it, and I looked at it every day. Ah, if I were 
rich! S — shall not have his St. Matthew. It is singular the 
impression that the Morot has made upon me; it is vapid 
beside Bastien-Lepage and Henner. Henner! He has inex- 
pressible charm. 

Sunday, June 27 th. — I modeled a little in the morning. I 
am as low as possible, but I must appear gay, and my misery 
makes me stupid. I do not know how to say anything; my 
laughter is forced; I listen to all sorts of common-places, and 
I would like to cry. 

Misery of misery! 

Outside of my art/ which I began through ambition and 
fancy, continued through vanity, and adore now; outside of 
this passion (for it is a passion) I have nothing but the most 
atrocious of existences! Ah, misery of misery! There are, 
however, some happy people on earth. Happy, that is too 
much; a simply bearable existence would be enough for me. 
With what I have, that would be happiness. 

Wednesday, June 7,0th. — Instead of painting, I took Miss 
Graham and we went to the Rue de Sevres and passed an hour 
there before the houses of" the Jesuits. But it was 9 o'clock 
and we saw only the remains of the agitation. 

I think the proscription of the Jesuits stupid, and I can only 
explain it as a rascally revenge of Monsieur Jules Ferry, for 
his Article 7. The influence of the Jesuits has been con- 
siderably increased thereby; if one detests their doctrines, 
this is no way to stamp them out, and if it is difficult to stamp 
them out, it would be better to let them alone. There would 
be only one way to destroy the Jesuits, and that is imprac- 



490 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ticable. Give them all sorts of guarantees, make all sorts 
of advances to all the Jesuits in existence, make them gifts 
of lands, build them houses, create for them a city, and 
when they are all there, blow the whole thing up. I do not 
detest the Jesuits so much as I fear them, because I am so 
ignorant of what they really are. Is there any one who 
knows that? 

No! but it would be difficult to do anything more stupid, 
and of less use than this proscription. Why did Gambetta 
permit it? I thought for a time that he allowed it to be 
arranged in order to intervene and prevent it. 

Wednesday y July 141/1. — The anniversary of the taking of 
the Bastile. A review, distribution of flags, illuminations, and 
dancing in all the public squares. 

The marked characteristic of Paris is its charming novelty. 

At 6 o'clock we took the belt railway for Porte Maillot. I 
was dressed in a pink gown, which cost 25 francs, at the 
Magasin du Printemps. 

Notice that we were going to see the illuminations and 
uproar at Belleville. We talked and laughed so much that we 
passed the station and had to change trains three times. The 
most disquieting thing was, that all the villages seemed aban- 
doned. Finally, we alighted in a barren place; it was 8 o'clock 
and we were beginning to be hungry. Gaillard proposed 
to dine at St. Fargeau Lake — beautiful trees, a lake, good 
cooking, etc. We agreed, set out to find it, and entered a 
park, the Buttes Chaumont. We were frightfully hungry, but 
we consoled ourselves at sight of the lovely landscape, and 
especially of a certain pavilion like a temple. Julian ques- 
tioned everyone we met as to where there was a restaurant, 
and each one directed us a different way. Finally, after having 
walked a long way, and admired the pavement to console our- 
selves, we perceived a lake and an illuminated restaurant. 
Hurrah! We ran toward it, but, after running several minutes, 
we found a locked gate. We had to retrace our steps and go 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 491 

round on the other side. It was too bad; the future Madame 
Gaillard was dying of hunger. And every time that we laugh- 
ingly predicted some misadventure, it was sure to happen. 
The lake was not St. Fargeau, and the restaurant was a simple 
cafe, where there was nothing to eat. 

" Let us go to Villette," said someone. 

" If you want to eat something standing up," said a shabby 
citizen, "go in there," and he pointed to a miserable 
shanty. 

Oh, joy! a cab hove in sight, but refused to take us, and it 
was only after much insisting and pleading that we prevailed 
upon the driver. We all five piled in and started for St. 
Fargeau Lake. I will not describe the drive, which lasted a 
whole hour through a lot of empty, narrow streets. We 
arrived at last. St. Fargeau Lake was not a lake at all, but an 
ugly pool of water. It was now half-past 9; but we were no 
sooner seated at table than it began to rain. There was a 
general movement to an enormous hall. I mounted upon a chair. 
" Gentlemen," I said, " I am an opportunist before every- 
thing, and as there is an opportunity to eat now, I propose that 
we do so without more ado." About 10 o'clock, we thought of 
the fireworks that we were to have seen from the top of the 
Buttes Chaumont. At the door of the restaurant we found 
our angelic coachman. He was drunk, but he showed the 
talent of an ambassador under difficult circumstances. In fact, 
cries of "Down with carriages!'' were beginning to be heard; 
we answered with, " Long live the Republic!" 

Friday, July 16th. — Julian thinks my painting very good, 
very good indeed; and A — is obliged to say that it is not bad, 
for Julian is more severe than Tony. 

I am more than delighted at Julian's praises. 

We are going away to-morrow, and I have been undergoing 
all the annoyances of packing. 

It is fortunate that I am going away, for otherwise the studio 
would no longer go on so well. I am, just now, its unrivaled 



492 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

head. I advise, I amuse, and they go into ecstasies over my 
work; I lay aside coquetry to be kind, gentle, obliging, to 
make myself liked, to like my comrades, and to comfort them 
with ices or fruit. 

The other day I went out ior awhile, and they immediately 
began to speak well of me. Mademoiselle Marie D — has not 
yet ceased telling about it, and Madeleine, who draws, as you 
know, wants to begin to paint, and has come to me for advice. 
It is true that I can teach admirably; if I painted as well asT 
teach, I should be contented. Julian regrets that I can not go 
on with that head, which would be "a thing to be exhibited." 
" It is so natural, so free, so living." 

It is an original head — very large eyes, heavy lids, arched 
eyebrows, a little uplifted, a turned-up nose, a pretty mouth, a 
charming complexion; it is a young face, but with a look of 
past suffering, which, however, is not displeasing. Golden 
hair, arranged in a heavy mass, and relieved by the back- 
ground of dark green. 

Saturday, July 17th. — I would like to go into the country, 
the real country where there is no one; it would be happiness 
to be able to retire from time to time to uninhabited countries, 
to islands amid great odd trees, as in Paul and Virginia. To 
see the sun rise, and to enjoy the night all alone; in the most 
absolute peace and quiet. A wild country with great trees, a 
pure sky, mountains gilded by the sun, and an air such as we 
can imagine, an air which, in itself, is felicity, instead of the 
horrors one breathes here. But, for such an existence, money 
is necessary. And I would not want even the man I loved in 
that solitude. 

Mont Dore, Tuesday, July 20th. — I went to Julian's, with 
Villevieille, in search of my keys that I left there yesterday. 
He encouraged me much, and I came away feeling happy. 
There is one other comfort, also, and that is that I am no 
longer afraid of Breslau. 

"When she works," said Julian, speaking of me, "it is not 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 493 

painting, it is nature itself; and even when she does not 
entirely succeed, you can see what she was aiming at." 

After this call, we went to see the " Prix de Rome." At 4 
o'clock Villevieille returned to bid me good-bye, and we 
started. Monday, at 6 o'clock in the morning, we arrived at 
Clermont; there were six hours in a stage from Clermont to 
this frightful Mont Dore; but I preferred it to the railway. 

We are badly lodged, the house is full, and the cooking 
atrocious. It was not until to-day that I had felt in the least 
comfortable, and that is because I have discovered some inter- 
esting subjects to paint. 

Wednesday, July 21st. — I have begun my course of treat- 
ment. They come for me with an air-tight sedan chair. My 
costume is of white flannel, trousers to my feet, a cloak and a 
hood. 

Then follow a bath, a douche, drinking the waters and inhala- 
tions. I agree to everything; but this is the last time that I 
will submit to treatment, and I would not do it now if I were 
not afraid of becoming deaf. My deafness is much better; 
almost well, in fact. 

Thursday, July 22d. — I have no objection to the elevation 
of a man to supreme power, when that man is a hero like 4 
Napoleon I. I do not object to having a sort of dictatorship 
conferred upon a superior and capable being, but his children 
should not succeed him. I would not like even a life tenure 
of office; but, if a man does his duty, let him be retained. 

I am wearing a peasant's hat here; it is very becoming to 
me and makes me look like one of Greuze's pictures, I sent 
a telegram and they forwarded me some linen dresses to wear 
warm days, and now it is cold. I am beginning to admire the 
country about here; until this evening, I was dulled by the 
wretchedness of the food — dulled because eating is an ignoble 
occupation, but one which we are forced to accept 

Friday, July 2$d. — Who will give me back my squandered, 
stolen, vanished youth? I am not yet twenty, and the other 



494 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

day I discovered three white hairs. I am proud of them, for 
they are a terrible proof that I have exaggerated nothing. 
Were it not for my young figure, I should appear old. Is 
that natural at my age? 

No! there arises such a storm in my heart that I will cut the 
whole matter short by telling myself that I can always put a 
bullet through my head before pitying glances are cast at 
me. 

I had an extraordinary voice; it was a gift from God, and I 
have lost it. Song for woman is what eloquence is for man — 
a power without limit. 

I saw to-day Madame de Rothschild with her horses, dogs, 
etc., in the park, which my window overlooks. The sight of 
that happy woman made me ill; but I must be brave. Besides, 
when suffering becomes too severe, deliverance is at hand. 
When it has reached a certain point we know that it must 
henceforth diminish. It is while awaiting this crisis of the 
heart and soul that we suffer; but the crisis once reached, we 
are relieved. Then we call to our aid Epictetus, or we pray; 
but prayer is too emotional. 

I am better for some days, perhaps, but during those days 
bitterness mounts, mounts, mounts again; then, there is 
another outburst, another abasement, and so all over again. 

Tuesday, July 2*jtA. — I tried to paint a landscape, but it 
ended in my knocking down the canvas; then I found beside 
me a little girl of four years, who was watching what I was 
doing, and instead of looking at the landscape, I looked at 
the child, who is going to pose for me to-morrow. How can 
anything be preferred to the human figure? 

I have such a pain in my neck and left ear that it is driving 
me almost mad. I don't say anything about it, because it 
would only make my aunt worry me, and I know it comes from 
my throat trouble. 

Here I have been for more than twenty-four hours suffering 
agony. It is impossible to sleep or to do anything whatever. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 495 

I am even forced to stop reading every moment or two. It is 
this pain which makes life look so black to me, I think. 

Misery of misery! 

Thursday \ July 29th.— I find plenty of models. All these 
people of Auvergne are wonderfully obliging, and the women 
extremely flattering. I began with a little girl, about ten years 
of age, lying asleep in the grass; but to-morrow I leave her 
for a little fellow with a goat (life-size), which I shall finish, 
and then go back to my little girl. The boy with the goat is 
the son of a woodcarver, who has worked in the Paris shops. 
His mother is a seamstress and there are three pretty children. 

Moreover, their shop faces the north, and, on rainy days, I 
shall make a study of a very dark shop, in which I shall place 
the little girl, who is about seven, and a charming child. 

Saturday, July 31^/. — Yesterday I began my picture on a 
No. 25 canvas. The grouping is very simple. The two chil- 
dren are seated beneath beautiful trees, covered with moss; 
there is a clearing in the distance through whictucan be seen 
the green country. The boy, who is twelve years old, is seated 
in front, a school-book under his left arm, and his eyes fixed 
upon vacancy. The little girl, who is six years old, has one 
hand upon his shoulder, and in the other holds a pear. The 
face is in profile and she seems to be speaking to him. The 
two children are seen from the knees only, for the picture is 
life-size. 

Before leaving Paris, I read "Indiana," by George Sand, and 
I assure you it is not interesting. As the only other novels of 
hers that I have read are, " La Petite Fadette, " "Indiana," 
and one or two others, perhaps I ought not to give an opinion, 
but at present, I do not recognize her talent at all. 

And yet, everybody has praised her so much — still, I do not 
like her. 

It is like Raphael's "Virgins." What I see at the Louvre does 
not please me. I saw Italy before I was able to judge, and 
what I saw then also displeased me. What is neither 



496 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

divine nor terrestrial, it seems to me, is conventional and 
unworthy. 

I intended to ride horseback, but I did not feel like doing 
anything, and, when I pass a day without working, I am 
attacked with frightful remorse, and there are days when I 
can do nothing; then, I tell myself, that if I wanted to, I could, 
and then I quarrel with myself, and then it all ends with a, 
" Well, let it all go; life is not worth living;" and then I smoke 
and read novels. 

Tuesday, August 17 tk. — I have had to give up my painting 
in the open air, on account of the bad weather. 

I have begun another (No. 15 canvas). 

The scene is in the woodcarver's shop. On the left the 
woman is trying on the little boy a choir-boy's dress. The 
little girl, seated on an old chest, regards her brother with 
open eyes; the grandmother is near the stove, with folded 
hands, and smiling at the boy; the father, near the table, is 
reading the Lanterne, and glances over it at the red soutane, 
and the white surplice. The background is very complicated 
— a stove, old bottles, tools, a host of details, naturally some- 
what hastily sketched in. 

I have not the time to finish it, but I made the picture to 
familiarize myself with those things. The standing figures, 
the walls, and the other details frightened me, and I should 
have been in despair if I had been obliged to paint a picture 
of an interior. Now, it is not so, not that I can do it well, 
but I am not afraid of it. 

The heads of my first sketch are nearly three fingers long. 

And there are the dresses and everything to be done, and I 
have never done anything but the nude, except in my misera- 
ble Salon picture — and the hand! There are six hands and a 
half. 

I have never had the perseverance to finish any piece of 
writing. Something happens. I have an idea; I sketch out 
what I want to say, and, the next day, I see in the journals an 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 497 

article which resembles mine, and renders mine useless — 
mine, which, moreover, I have never finished, nor placed in a 
presentable state. My art studies have shown me that an 
effort is necessary to conquer the first difficulty. " It is only 
the first step that counts." The proverb has never struck me 
so forcibly as now. 

And then, there is also, above all, the question of surround- 
ings. Mine may be described, in spite of the best will in the 
world, as stupefying. The members of my family are, for 
the most part, ignorant and ordinary. Then, there is Madame 
G — , who is a thorough society woman; and the people who 
.come to call There is almost no conversation, and you know 
who our intimates are: M — , and some colorless young people. 
So that, I assure you, if I did not shut myself up so often 
alone, with my books, I should be even less intelligent than I 
am. I often become stupid. Words crowd together in my 
mouth, and I can not speak. I listen; I smile vaguely, and 
that is all. 

Wednesday, August i8//z.— We have ridden too long to-day. 
Five hours on horseback, and with this debilitating treatment 
— I am literally worn out. 

I fear the treatment will prove that brute of a doctor to 
be right, when he said that I was weak. It is true that, 
when I finished, he assured me that, to have borne so well 
twenty-one baths, I must be very strong. Medicine is a sorry 
science. 

We went up to the summit of Sancy. The mountains, 
which surround the horrible Mont Dore, appear flat from this 
height. The view from the top of Sancy is really grand. I 
would like to see a sunrise from there. The distant horizon 
is of a bluish tint, which makes me think of the Mediterranean. 
The ascent on foot is very fatiguing, but when you reach the 
top, you seem to dominate the world. 

There were a crowd of people, who had come like us, and 
who were a blot upon the face of nature. 

32 



498 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Thursday, August 19th. — I am good-for-nothing this morn- 
ing. My eyes and my brain are tired. And to think that I 
can not go away until Saturday! To-day it is too late; 
to-morrow is Friday, and if I should travel on Friday, I should 
think that the misfortunes which are always happening to me, 
happened on that account. 

Paris, Sunday, August 22d. — Eight o'clock. How pretty and 
comfortable my studio looks! 

I have been reading the weekly illustrated papers, and some 
pamphlets. Everything goes on the same as before, just as 
if I had never been away. 

Two o'clock in the afternoon. I console (!) myself by^ 
thinking that my troubles are only the equivalent of those of 
every kind, which artists in general have to conquer, as I 
have neither poverty, nor the tyranny of relatives to suffer 
from, and that is what artists usually complain of, is it not? 

I shall not get rid of my troubles because I have talent, 
unless I produce a work of genius. But works of genius have 
never been produced after only three years' study, and there 
are so many to-day, who are talented. 

My intentions are good, but suddenly I commit follies, as 
in a dream. I despise and detest myself, as I despise and 
detest my family and everybody else. Oh, my family! Listen! 
On our journey, my aunt employed twenty little stratagems to 
have me sit on the side opposite the open window. Tired out, 
I consented on condition that it should remain open, and I 
was no sooner asleep, than she closed it. I awoke, exclaiming 
that I would break open the window with my heels, but we 
had reached our destination. And then, at breakfast, what 
looks of anguish and what theatrical frowns because I did not 
eat! These people evidently love me; but it seems to me that, 
when one loves, one ought to know better than to do such 
things. 

Sincere indignation produces eloquence. 

When a man is indignant, or thinks himself indignant with 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 499 

a government, he mounts the tribune and wins renown. But a 
woman has no tribune at "her disposal; moreover, she is 
besieged by fathers and mothers, stepfathers and stepmothers, 
etc., who worry her all day long; she becomes indignant, and 
she is eloquent before her dressing-table. Result — zero. 

And then, mamma talks all the time about God: " If it is 
God's will!" "With the help of God!" When one invokes 
God so often, it is only to excuse the neglect of all sorts of 
little duties. 

This is not faith, nor even religion; it is a mania, a* weak- 
ness, the cowardice of the lazy, the incapable, and the indolent. 
What more indelicate than to cover all one's shortcomings by 
the word " God?" It is not only indelicate, it is more, it is 
criminal, if one believes in God. " If it is ordained that such 
a thing shall happen, it will happen," she says, to avoid the 
trouble of exerting herself and to ward off remorse. 

If everything were foreordained, God would be only a con- 
stitutional president, and free-will, vice, virtue, meaningless 
words. 

Thursday, September 2d. — " Moreover, he read much, he 
sought for that deep, serious knowledge one can get only from 
one's self, and to the obtaining of which all people of talent 
devote themselves between the ages of twenty and thirty." 
This paragraph, copied from Balzac, flatters me. 

I have hired a garden at Passy, 45 Rue du Ranelagh, to 
pursue my studies in the open air. I have begun with Irma, 
nude, standing under a leafless tree — life-size. 

It is still warm enough, but I have no time to lose. That is. 
how my life passes, and I like it so much; but yet I have 
strange forebodings of I know not what; it seems to me that 
something is going to happen. No! Alone and working, I 
will believe myself safe; but men are so mean, so wicked, that 
they will seek you out to cause you pain. 

But w T hat can happen? I don't know. Somebody will invent 
some falsehood or other; I shall hear of it and be miserable. 



500 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Or some villainous deed will be done to me, not serious, but 
sad and humiliating, one of those things that are so apt to 
happen to me. 

All this keeps me away from Biarritz. 

" Go there," Madame G — said to me; " you must go there. 
I will tell your mother or your aunt so. Go to Biarritz; it is 
very charming, and you will meet everybody." 

Bah! how these society women talk! Well, if they will 
only leave me in peace, I will remain in my garden at Passy. 

Tuesday, September p/i. — It is raining, and all the worst inci- 
dents of my life pass in review before me, and there are 
things, far back in the past now, the very thought of which 
makes me start and clinch my hands as if a physical pain 
had suddenly shot through me. 

If I am to be better, all my surroundings must be changed. 
My family are disagreeable to me. I know beforehand all that 
my aunt or mamma will say or do under such and such circum- 
stances; how they will behave in the drawing-room, out 
walking, at a watering-place, etc., and it all grates horribly 
upon my nerves, as if someone were sharpening a knife. 

I would have to change all my surroundings, and then, when 
I had become tranquil, I should, doubtless, love them as they 
deserve to be loved. Meantime, however, they are worry- 
ing the life out of me. If I refuse a dish at the table, they 
look frightened; they employ a thousand little stratagems 
not to have ice used at the table, because it may do me harm. 
They come on tiptoe to close the windows that I have opened. 
A thousand little nonsensical actions irritate me and make me 
hate everything and everybody in the house. And what makes 
me especially uneasy is that I am rusting in this solitude; all 
these somber colors dim my intelligence and force me back into 
myself. I fear that these dark clouds will leave a lasting 
mark upon my character, and render me bitter, sour, and 
morose. I have no desire to be like that, and I fear to become 
so, on account of the rage which I keep pent up within me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 501 

They say that my manners are perfect; the old Bonapartists 
told Adeline so. But what difference does it make? It seems 
to me that misfortune is always hanging over me. 

I am always afraid of being slandered, humiliated, pointed 
at, and there must be some reason for it, whatever anyone 
says. You see, my family does not know what it has done to 
me. My sadness alarms me only because I fear to lose forever 
all those brilliant qualities which are so indispensable to women. 

Why live? What am I accomplishing here? What do I 
possess? Neither fame, nor happiness, nor even peace! 

Friday \ September 10th. — Deep emotion for my aunt to-day! 
Doctor Fauvel, who examined me a week ago, and found 
nothing the matter, examined me again to-day, and found my 
bronchial tubes affected. He seemed serious, moved, and a 
little confused at not having foreseen the grave nature of the 
malady; then he prescribed the usual remedies for consump- 
tives, cod-liver oil, painting with iodine, warm milk, flannel, 
etc., and finally advised me to see Doctor See or Doctor 
Potain, or to call them in to consult with him. You can 
imagine my aunt's face! It only amused me. For a long 
time I have suspected something of the sort, I coughed all 
last winter, and I cough and choke now. Besides, it would be 
astonishing if I did not have something the matter with me; I 
should be well contented to have something serious that 
would end it all. My aunt is terrified, but I rejoice. Death 
has no terrors for me; I would not dare to kill myself, but I 
long for the end. If- you but knew — I shall not put on any 
flannel, nor will I paint myself with iodine. I do not care to 
be cured. Without that, I shall have health and life enough 
left to do what I want to do. 

Friday, September ijtA. — Yesterday I went again to the 
doctor who has charge of my ears, and he confessed that he 
did not expect it would be so grave a matter, and that I would 
never hear as well as before. I was completely overwhelmed 
by this intelligence. It is horrible. I am certainly not deaf, 



502 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

but I hear as one would see through a thin veil. For instance, 
I can no longer hear the tick of the clock in my room, and, 
perhaps, I shall never hear it except by holding it close to my 
ear. This is a real misfortune. In conversation, sometimes, 
many things escape me — well, let me thank heaven that I am 
not yet blind or dumb. I write all bent over, and if I try to 
straighten up, I have a terrible pain. Tears always affect me 
in that way. When the Prince Imperial died, I had the same 
trouble. I have been crying ever since morning. 

Tuesday, September 2%th. — I have been happy ever since last 
night. I dreamed of him. He was ugly and ill, but that is of 
no consequence. I understand now that beauty is not the 
quality that inspires love. We talked like two friends, as 
before; as we shall talk again, if we ever meet. I would ask 
only one thing, that our friendship might not transgress those 
limits beyond which it would be liable to change. 

It was more of a reality than a dream, and I have never 
been so happy as I was last night. 

Saint-Afnand came to breakfast. An avalanche of compli- 
ments; I am this and that, and they will make me this winter 
the center of a brilliant circle; he will bring to me the celeb- 
rities, all the somebodies, etc. I had no need of this -to make 
me any happier, for I awoke laughing. 

Dumas Fils says that young girls do not love, but prefer, 
for they do not know what love is. And what, indeed, is your 
idea of love, Monsieur Dumas? 

In the first place, one always has almost enough knowledge 
to know that — . And then, what Monsieur Dumas calls love, 
is only the consequence and natural complement of love, and 
not at all a thing apart, isolated, and complete; at least, that is 
true as far as people who are at all decent go. " A conse- 
quence often inevitable and without which there can be no 
love," says the same Dumas; and he calls it also "the supreme 
expression of love. ,, That, I can believe; but to say that a 
young girl can not love is foolish. I, for instance, / know 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 503 

nothing of it, and yet, I feel that it would be something repul- 
sive with a disagreeable being, and that it is "the supreme 
expression of love," when one loves. Now, there are also 
foolish ideas which sometimes flit through my brain, but I 
know very well what they are — when the man is not repulsive; 
but they have nothing at all to do with love. What would 
disgust me most, would be to kiss the lips of a man to whom 
I was indifferent; I do not believe that I could ever do it. 

But when one loves, ah! it is so different. So last night, in 
my dream, I loved, as if I had been awake; and it was so 
pure, so tender, so beautiful. Love is a grand, pure senti- 
ment, and everything about it is chaste. 

The love of Monsieur Dumas is not the thing itself, but 
only a consequence of what one feels, a means to love better 
and love more the person one already loves. 

Wednesday, Septeinber 2gth. — Since yesterday, my complex- 
ion has been astonishingly clear and fresh, and pretty, and my 
eyes brilliant, and animated; even the contour of my face 
seems more delicate and beautiful. It is a shame, however, 
that all this should be at a time when I see no one. It is 
stupid to tell it, but I spent half an hour delightedly gazing at 
myself in the glass; it is some time since that has happened 
to me. 

Friday, October ist. — A Russian family, who came to see us, 
told me^of what is taking place in Russia. Their eldest 
daughter is under the closest surveillance of the police, 
because, she said, one examination day, when the grand duke 
was expected to be present, that she. would infinitely prefer to 
pass her examination than to receive a visit from the grand 
duke. Then, she was very near-sighted, and wore an eye- 
glass, thanks to which she was denounced to the police; eye- 
glasses being, when worn by women, the sign of advanced 
ideas. For a word, one is transported, poisoned, or exiled. 
Domiciliary visits are made at night, and if you are not very 
dangerous, you are exiled to Viatka, or to Perm; if you are 



504 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

considered very much so, you are condemned to Siberia, or 
you are executed. They say that there is not a family, where 
some member has not been executed or sent to Siberia, or, at 
least, is under surveillance. The system of espionage is so 
thoroughly organized that it is impossible to talk in your own 
house, with your own family, without what you have said being 
reported to the authorities. 

Poor country! and I accused myself the other day of cow- 
ardice because I did not wish to go there! But is it possible? 
The Socialists are atrocious scoundrels who rob and murder; 
the government is arbitrary and stupid, and these two shock- 
ing elements are continually warring, and between the two, 
wise, intelligent people are crushed. The Russian girl told 
me, after a talk of two hours, that for the tenth of what I had 
said I would be executed or sent to the galleys for life, and if 
I go to Russia my fate is settled. 

I shall go to Russia when there is in that beautiful country 
some respect for the rights of the people; when one can be 
useful there and not risk being exiled for saying " the censure 
is very severe!" 

All this excites me greatly. Is there no possibility of estab- 
lishing an honest liberal party? for I hate the crimes of social- 
ism as much as those of the government. 

Ah! if it were not for my painting, how I — 

Oh, Frenchmen! who say that you are neither happy nor 
free! There is taking place in Russia now what took place in 
France under the reign of terror; a word, a gesture, and one 
is lost. Ah! how much still remains to be done that men may 
even approach happiness! "We are on the road to the deliv- 
erance of woman," says Dumas Fils; " when that is done, we 
must try to deliver God, and as then there will be a perfect 
understanding between the three eternal bodies, God, man, 
and woman, we shall see clearer and advance more swiftly." 

The woman question is exceedingly important, and when 
one thinks that everything has progressed except that, one is 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 505 

really stupefied. Read Dumas' pamphlet, "Women who Vote 
and Women who Kill." Dumas' biting talents do not offend 
me in these pages, although he makes man still a little too 
haughty toward woman; but, taken altogether, it is good. 

Saturday, October 2d. — A lady, whose portrait I drew, has 
paid me by sitting for a study of hands. Tony was adorable; 
he was on his way to correct the " Jewess " when he perceived 
the hands. 

" Who did that?" 

" I, Monsieur." 

"It is very real, very real, very real;" then, after another 
look at the study, he repeated, " It is very real, very real, very 
real;" and, after another pause, " It is very real." He seemed 
agreeably surprised, and you can imagine my delight! 

Then he sat down beside me and gave me a lesson. " It is 
a good study, you must do others like it; there are some 
charming tints in it." I underline the words, because my com- 
rades, not knowing what else to find fault with, deny that my 
coloring is good. 

"Unfortunately, it is not entirely well drawn; but, in the 
second study, that will not be the case, I am sure. It is a 
fault you will not commit twice; in short, it is good, very 
good." 

I turned white and red. I wish you could see my importance 
in the studio. I have the most talent of any, and so much has 
been said to me that I am beginning to speak unctuously, like 
Cassagnac. But do not fear that my success will turn my 
head. 

I am pleased with my painting, and I am improving in every 
way. 

The hands are painted on a No. 6 canvas, the left outspread 
upon the table and the right holds a pen, as if it had stopped 
to read over what it had written. That is awfully expressed; 
but you know what I mean. 

Sunday, October $d. — I am sad. 



506 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

You see, there is nothing to be done. For four years my 
laryngitis has been treated by the most celebrated doctors and 
it becomes continually worse. 

The last three days my ears were better, and I heard well; 
but to-day they are just as bad as ever. 

Wait, I will make a prophecy. 

I am going to die, but not immediately; immediately would 
end everything, it would be too much happiness. I am going 
to linger on with rheumatism, cough, fever, all sorts of things. 

Monday, October \th. — I sent to my professor at Naples for 
some music for the mandolin, and I have just received his 
answer. 

I shall keep his letter, because of its charming Italian 
phrasing, although coming from an ordinary man. I confess 
that in spite of my realistic tendencies (a word little under- 
stood) and my republican sentiments, I am very fond of 
flowery language. 

After all, why can not the two things go together? 

But the flowery style must be left to the Italians. In other 
nations it is ridiculous. Oh, God! when shall I be able to go 
to Italy? 

How dull every other place is after Italy! No one and 
nothing has ever produced in me the strong emotion that the 
memory of that country does. 

Why not go now? And my painting? Am I strong enough 
to continue it without instruction? I do not know. 

No. I will remain this winter in Paris. I will go to Italy, 
for the carnival; pass the winter of 1881-82 in St. Petersburg; 
and return to Paris, or Italy, for 1882 and 1883. And then, I 
will marry a nobleman with 15,000 or 20,000 francs a year, 
who will be glad to take me and my fortune. Am I not very 
wise to give myself three years to look about me, before 
capitulating? 

Tuesday, October $th. — I must be resigned, or rather summon 
up all my courage, examine my heart to its very depths, and then 



i 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 507 

ask myself if this, after all, is not a matter of indifference. 
What does it matter, if I have lived in one way, or another? I 
must conquer my feelings and- say, with Epictetus, that I am free 
to accept evil for good, or rather to remain indifferent to what- 
ever happens. One must have suffered horribly to become 
resigned to going out of life into this species of death, and it 
is only after unspeakable sufferings and thorough despair that 
one begins to understand the possibility of this living death. 
But, if one can learn to accept i't, one could be tranquil, at 
least. It is not a vain dream, it is a possible thing. But why 
live at all? you will say. True, but it is only after having 
recognized that real life is for you a succession of endless 
evils that you accept the other, or hide yourself from the first 
in the second. 

When one has reached a. certain point of physical suffering, 
one loses consciousness or falls into delirium; it is the same 
thing when mental sufferings have reached a certain point; 
one soars above them, one is astonished to have suffered, one 
despises everything and marches on with head erect, like the 
martyrs. 

What matters it, after all, whether the fifty years that I 
may have to live, be passed in a prison or palace, in society or 
in solitude? The end is the same. What trouble me are the 
feelings which have been repressed between the beginning and 
the end, and which leave no trace. But what matters a thing 
which does not last, and which leaves no trace? I can utilize 
my life by working, since I have talent; perhaps that will 
leave its traces — after death. 

Saturday, October gth. — I have not worked this week, and 
inaction makes me stupid. I have read over my journey to 
Russia, and it has interested me very much. In Russia I read 
a part of " Mademoiselle de Maupin." What I read did not 
please me; but to-day I have read it again, the whole of it, 
because Theophile Gautier is recognized as possessing great 
talent, and " Mademoiselle de Maupin " is considered a master- 



508 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

piece, especially the preface. The preface, it is true, is very 
good; but the book? Despite all its — nudities, it is not inter- 
esting and some of it is positively wearisome. I hear people 
exclaim: " But the language, the style!" Yes, it is written in 
good French and by a man who is a master in his profession; 
but his talents are not such as inspire sympathy. When I am 
older, I will, perhaps, be able to understand why it is a master- 
piece. Even now I understand that it is a fine piece of work, 
but it both repels and wearies me. 

Take George Sand. There is another writer with whom I 
have no sympathy, and George Sand is inferior to Gautier 
in that she does not possess that audacity and vigor which 
give you respect, if not friendship, for him. George Sand! 
Oh, she is well enough; but I prefer Daudet among modern 
writers; he writes only novels, but they are strewn with just 
observations, with things that are full of truth and feeling. 
There is life in his books. 

As for Zola, we are not on good terms; he has attacked, in 
the Figaro, Ranc and others of the Republican party, with a 
virulence which is in bad taste, and which is unbecoming both 
to his great genius and his high literary station. 

But what do people see in George Sand? A novel prettily 
written? Yes, and what else? Her novels bore me, while 
Balzac, the two Dumas, Zola, Daudet, and Musset never do. 
Victor Hugo, in his most wildly romantic prose, in rt Han 
D'Islande" for instance, never bores me. You can feel his 
genius. But George Sand! How can one read 300 pages 
filled with the actions and gestures of Valentine and Benedict 
accompanied by an uncle, a gardener, and I don't know 
what. 

Always the leveling of ranks by love — an ignoble theme. 

Let equality be established, that is admirable, but do not let it 
be due to the caprices of the sexual feeling. A countess in love 
with her valet, and endless dissertations upon the subject, that 
is George Sand's talent. They are certainly very pretty stories 






JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 509 

with very pretty descriptions of scenery — but I would like 
something more — I don't know exactly how to express myself. 
There are some things which I wish I did not think, for 
instance, I think always that I am addressing beings who are 
my superiors, and before whom I fear to speak with a pretense 
of knowledge, while, in general, my hearers are of mediocre, 
or inferior intelligence, and such people never appreciate 
modesty or an avowal of weakness. 

Well, I am reading " Valentine" now, and it irritates me 
because the book interests me enough to make me want to 
finish it, and at the same time I feel that it will leave nothing 
in my mind except a vaguely disagreeable feeling; it seems to 
me that such reading lowers me. I am revolted and yet I go 
on reading and shall go on to the end unless it prove as 
tiresome as the " Dernier Amour" of the same author. "Val- 
entine," however, is the best of George Sand's books that I 
have read. The " Marquis de Villemer" is also good; I 
believe it contains no groom in love with a countess. 

Sunday, October 10th. — Saint- Amand and some other people. 
We had some music and he wept over the airs from " Paul and 
Virginia." I can understand his emotion. I wept when I 
read the book, and the music of the opera made me weep in 
the same places. % 

I spent the morning at the Louvre and I was dazzled. I 
never have appreciated the works of art until this morning. 
Hitherto, I looked and did not see. It was like a revelation. 
Before, I went there and admired politely like the great 
majority of people. Ah! When one understands and feels art 
as I do, one can possess no ordinary soul. To feel what is 
beautiful and to understand why it is so, is a great happi- 
ness. 

Monday, October \\th % — I set to work at my painting to-day, 
still excited by what I saw yesterday; it is impossible not to 
achieve some measure of success when one has revelations 
like that of yesterday. 



510 * JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Tuesday \ October 12th. — Yesterday, I received the following 
dispatch from Poltava: 

" All the nobility offer through us their congratulations upon the unani- 
mous election of your father. We drink your health . 

4 * Abaza. 

" Manderstern. 

Abaza is the one I knew in Russia, the most important per- 
sonage at Poltava, after having been so at St. Petersburg and 
Odessa. 

Manderstern is the marshal of the nobility of the govern- 
ment, as my father is of the district of Poltava. I telegraphed 
back the following answer: I had to be polite, for family affairs 
are nobody's business, and then it was a sort of — how shall I 
say it — it was almost official, ceremonious. 

" Flattered by their kind attention, I cordially thank the worthy repre- 
sentatives of the nobility of Poltava, and wish them every prosperity. 

14 Marie Bashkirtseff." 

It was a fine answer, the dispatch of a great man, and then 
it was not in the telegraphic style, with all the short words 
omitted. In short, my girl, I am proud of you, 

I have read over again " Paul and Virginia " very carefully, 
and I willingly excused the somewhat old-fashioned style as I 
read the description of the virtues of those charming people. 
I cried heartily over it. 

You know when Paul returns to his neighbor's house and 
calls out from afar to the negress, Marie: "Where is Virginia?" 
Marie turns away her head and begins to weep. And I did, 
too. It is too bad for that boy to return and find her gone. 
Then, he runs up the rock and sees the ship which is now 
only a black speck; oh, how angry it makes one on his 
account. 

I wept and I wept. And when Paul said to the dog, which 
was running before him: "You will never see her again," I 
felt as though I could not bear it. And Virginia s letter in 
which she sends the violets to Paul. But the saddest of all 
is when she has gone, and from the top of the rock he looks 



1- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 511 

at the black spot on the horizon. Bernardin Saint Pierre did 
not know, himself, what he was accomplishing; it is a passage 
sublime in its simplicity and incomparable in its pathos. 

Friday, October i$th. — I have taken up again the portrait 
which I commenced, sometime ago, of one of Julian's pupils;, 
not the yellow-haired one, another; a lovely creature. Brown 
hair with red reflections in it. Such freshness and vivacity! 
A lovely complexion (it will be too ruddy sometime, perhaps), 
exquisite brown eyes, and a divine mouth. Still, there is. 
something a little ordinary in her front face; I am doing it in 
profile. Her neck and arms are splendid in form and 
color. 

She is twenty-five years old, and a widow, with a little boy 
of five or six. If she were a model, I would engage her for the 
whole year. 

She has also beautiful hands and a beautiful skin. It is 
impossible to describe the extraordinary brilliancy of her face. 
I already have an idea of her as a subject for the Salon. I 
shall give her her portrait, and she has well earned it, for she 
poses like an angel. I have dressed her after the fashion of 
Greuze, a waist of cream-colored damask and a fichu of India 
muslin. 

I shall never dare to ask her to sit for me for the Salon, 
it would be a month's work. If I could discover some way of 
paying her, but that is impossible. I have already asked her, 
laughingly, to pose, but I really meant it. Ah, what a model! 
I could do something splendid with her. 

In the same way, as three years ago, I made white the fashion, 
they now copy my crossed draperies and my pointed belt. It 
is very annoying. 

Saturday, October 16th. — Among all sorts of good things, 
Tony said: " Take it all together, I am very much pleased." 
Then followed the lesson. I .am very much pleased, too. 
Every Saturday I am afraid and then I am delighted. 

It is the only thing that I look at seriously. 



512 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

My brilliant model, who is named Madame G — , will -sit for 
a picture, provided that it is not too nude. I do not know what 
her position in life is, but I suppose that she does not work 
for a living, since she comes to the studio and sits as much as 
I want for this portrait. It makes no difference, she is really 
very nice. 

She had promised me the use of her hands and arms in 
exchange for the head of her son, but now a whole picture! 
Do you know, it is an affair of six weeks, perhaps! She is 
fresh, young, brilliant, with something touchingly maternal in 
her face, too. I will have a handsome frame for it. 

Tuesday \ October igt/i. — Alas! after dragging out a few mis- 
erable years, all this will end in death. 

I have had some suspicion that that would be the case. One 
can not live with a head like mine. I am like the children who 
have too much brain. 

I needed too many things to be happy; and circumstances 
have been such that I am deprived of everything, except physi- 
cal ease. 

Two, or three, years ago, and even six months ago, whenever 
I went to a new doctor in the hope of recovering my voice, he 
would ask me if I had such and such a symptom, and, as I 
would answer in the negative, he would say: " There is noth- 
ing the matter with the bronchial tubes, or the lungs, it is only 
the larynx." Now, I am beginning to feel all those things 
which the doctors asked me about. Therefore, the bronchial 
tubes and the lungs must be affected. Fauvel ordered iodine 
and a blister; naturally, I uttered cries of horror. I would 
rather break an arm than be blistered. Three years ago, in 
Germany, a physician at the springs told me that he found 
something in the left lung, under the shoulder-blade. I 
laughed at him; but yet, at Nice, five years ago, I had felt, at 
times, a pain in that place; still, I was convinced that I was 
going to have a hump, as two of my aunts, sisters of my 
father, are humpbacks, and some months ago I was asked if 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 513 

I felt anything there, and I thoughtlessly answered, no. Now, 
when I cough, or even draw a long breath, I feel it there, in my 
back, on the right side. All these things, together, make me 
think that there is really something the matter with me. I feel 
a sort of pride in demonstrating that I am ill; but it does not 
please me much. It is a horrible death, very slow — four, five, 
ten years, perhaps, and one becomes so thin and ugly. 

I have not grown thin much. I am just about right; but I 
have a tired look; I cough considerably, and I breathe with 
difficulty. For the last four years, I have been treated by the 
most celebrated doctors, and marched off to watering-places, 
and not only I have not recovered my beautiful voice — so 
beautiful that I shed tears when T think of it — but I grow 
more and more ill, and I am, let me say the horrible word, a 
little deaf. 

Well, if death only comes quickly, I will not complain. 

Have you ever happened to open your mouth, or take up 
your pen, to say that you do not believe in something which 
you did believe in once, and even while you are saying: " How 
could I have thought that?" to be seized by the old idea, and 
to believe in it again, or, at least, to strongly doubt the new 
one? It was in this condition that I have made the sketch of 
a picture. While waiting for the artist, the model, a little 
blonde woman, is seated astride a chair, and smoking a cigar- 
ette, while looking at a skeleton, between whose teeth she has 
placed a pipe. Her garments are scattered on the floor, to the 
left; on the right, her boots, an open cigar-case, and a little 
bunch of violets. One of her legs is passed through the back 
of the chair; she is leaning on her elbow, one hand under her 
chin. One stocking is on the ground, and the other still hang- 
ing on her foot. It will afford a very great chance for color- 
ing. By the way, I am becoming a colorist. Ah ! I said that 
jokingly; but, nonsense apart, I feel color, and there is no com- 
parison between my pictures two months ago, before I went to 
Mont Dore, and to-day. 

33 



514 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

You shall see that I will find thirty-six things to attach me 
to life, when I shall be good-for-nothing, ill, and repulsive. 

Thursday \ October 21st. — I showed Julian the picture that I 
painted at Mont Dore. He naturally criticised it severely, while 
saying that certain modern artists would find it very good; that 
it was a mixture of Bastien-Lepage and Bouvin; that there 
were interesting points in it; in fact, that it was an interesting 
picture, but that I paint ".like a villain." In regard to the 
sketch of the young woman nursing her child, he simply said 
that a mother did not nourish her infant with the whole upper 
part of her body nude. I had composed this in a quiet key; 
the woman is seated upon a low chair of yellow plush, the 
legs stretched out, the feet naked, with one foot upon a stool; 
the head is in profile, the bust three-quarters. The infant pats 
the breast with its little hand. The background is composed 
of the curtains of the bed, and beyond, in the shadow, are 
some ferns in a blue Chinese vase. It is very quiet, but I 
must cover one shoulder, at least. 

As for the sketch of the model and the skeleton, that affected 
him vividly. He said that it was low, disgusting! I added: 
"Yes, disgusting, and, for that very reason, natural." "But 
you can not put your name to this. It would make a scandal. 
But, by Jove, I do not say that you will become instantly a 
celebrated artist, but you will certainly be famous through 
your queer subjects. That is a picture which will cause a hue 
and a cry, especially if it is known that it is by a woman — a 
young girl. But that is the way with me, too; when I paint a 
picture, people cover their faces." 

Friday, October 22d. — It is raining, dark, and piercing cold, 
and I am like the weather; and I cough all the time. Ah, 
what misery, and what a wretched existence! At half -past 
3 it was too dark to paint, and I read all the evening, so that my 
eyes will be too weary to paint to-morrow. The few people 
that I care to see, I fly from; for fear of not hearing what they 
say. There are days when I hear very well, and others, no; 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 515 

and in the latter case, it is a terrible punishment. So God is 
going to put an end to me! Well, I am prepared for all sorts 
of misery, so long as I don't see anyone. Every time the bell 
rings it makes me shudder. This new and horrible misfortune 
makes me fear all that I once desired. Still, I am always 
bright and gay with others; I laugh as much as Mademoiselle 
Samary, of the Theatre- Fran$ais, but it is more a habit than a 
mask — I shall always laugh. It is ended; not only do I believe 
that it is ended, but I desire it to be. There are no words to 
paint my dejection. 

Sunday, October 24th. — I have been to the Louvre. I always 
go there alone, knowing that I shall meet no one I know, Sun- 
day mornings. You can only see well when alone. I am 
delighted with the pictures of the last century; they possess 
an inimitable and exquisite grace. That was a delightful 
time. Do you think that I was born for a laborious, studious, 
or heroic life? I would like to abandon myself to the most 
luxurious idleness, wrapped in gauzes like those of Watteau 
and Greuze, and in brocades of Rigaud. That was an exquisite 
century, a happy mixture of ancient and modern times, 
ancient prestige with English wash-stands. While before, they 
scarcely washed at all; that fact spoils for me all the fine 
adventures of the olden days. 

Monday, October 25M.— I am reading " Les Chdtiments" 
Victor Hugo is certainly a genius, and I don't even know if 
I can say that certain of his lyrical passions astonished, not 
to say fatigued, me. No, I do not think it; it is beautiful, it 
is sublime, and despite the big arms, and the sweat, and the 
horrors, etc., it is human, natural, fine. But I like him, espe- 
cially in moments of touching simplicity, the last act of 
" Hernani " when Dona Sol implores the clemency of the old 
man, and the language of the grandmother whose boy had 
received two bullets in the head. 

Friday, October 29th. — A passage I have read in the New 
Testament is so extraordinarily in accord with the thoughts 



516 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

that were guiding me, that I have returned once more to the 
religious fervor, the miracles, Jesus Christ, and my passionate 
prayers of the old days. For some time I have contented 
myself with one God, and my belief has been very pure, very 
severe, very simple; but now I return to a more familiar, more 
consoling religion, one more in consonance with the fears, the 
miseries, and the meanness of my nature. 

The Man-6od and the Virgin Mary seem to hear you more 
than the real God. 

Monday, November ist. — Our studio has become like that of 
the men; that is, we have all day the same model in the same 
pose, consequently we will be able to paint large pictures. I 
have wanted this for two or three months. Before, it would 
haive been of no use; but I am ready now for this work. 
There are only eight of us, the other pupils, to the number of 
twenty-five, have gone to the new studio, which Julian has 
started at 51 Rue Vivienne, and where the arrangements are 
like our old one. 

Tuesday, November 2d. — For the last week I have had my 
breakfast brought from the house to the studio. They bring 
it in a basket. It is much more sensible than hurrying from 
the Rue Vivienne to the Champs Elysees and losing the best 
hours of the day. In this way I work from 8 till noon and 
from 1 till 4. 

Wednesday, November 10th. — It is horrible to have worked 
constantly for three months only to discover that I know 
nothing. 

Thursday, November nth. — Tony came, and when I ex- 
plained to him my discouragement, he said that it proved that 
I am not blind, and he urges me to go on with my work and 
continue to study. 

Well, it proves that I know more than before, since I see 
my ignorance clearly; but how sad it is! how much need I 
have of encouragement. I have had made a brown mantle 
with a monk's hood to put on in the studio, when I have to 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 51? 

sit near the window, where there is a frightful draught. So, I 
have a monk's hood, which has always brought me misfortune! 
I wept under this hood, and so much that that good Zilhardt, 
who came to see if it was not a joke, was dumbfounded. I 
want to paint a picture representing an expulsion of monks, 
and I therefore went to the Capuchins of the Rue de la Sante. 
The three fathers who remain there, told me all the details 
and showed me the place of the sad deed. I offered an 
asylum to two of the fathers at Nice. I hope that they will 
not take advantage of the offer. 

Sunday, November 14th. — The Capuchin Convent at Ver- 
sailles, having made the strongest resistance, I visited it, 
hoping it might answer my purpose. 

Outside of the convent there are kneeling benches, where, 
in spite of the rain, the faithful come to kneel before the 
sealed doors of the chapel. Excited women, crying loudly 
that there is neither property nor law — heavens! how clumsily 
all this was done, and what advantage the monks have taken 
of it! 

Shall then Gambetta be the strong man? In short, a man 
must arise. Will it then be the Bonapartist system, and prin- 
ciples, and the republic? Oh, do not be alarmed! I do not 
change; I still believe in the equality of man and woman — 
the only thing in the world to which I am sincerely attached. 
There are things which impose themselves on my good sense. 
They are few; but when I am thoroughly convinced, nothing 
in the world can move me, and it is with difficulty that I 
restrain myself from proclaiming my convictions from the 
house-tops, so delighted and proud am I of having found out 
something by myself, and of believing in it sincerely. For in 
so many things — in nearly all, alas! — I care only — only on the 
surface — for what may be said, or that I may not be shut out 
from everything, or for what it may bring me. 

Therefore, a man, or rather men, are needed; those who are 
leading us here are stupid and ridiculous; it is humiliating to 



518 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the republic. Do not imagine I have been impressed by the 
kneeling benches in the rain. Even if they were sincere, I 
should not have been much affected. The church has lessened 
God, disfigured religion, or rather created, instead of the wor- 
ship we owe to God, a religion complicated and full of char- 
latanism, which must be destroyed. The Capuchin father 
received us with scant courtesy, from the inside of his wicket, 
telling us we could obtain all information we required from 
the faithful. I made a rough sketch of the court-yard, but it 
does not suit me any better than the Rue de la Sante. I shall 
retouch it a little; but — that is all. 

Tuesday, November \6th. — I believe I exaggerated the other 
day in regard to the Church, my remorse afterward almost 
drove me out of bed to make my apology here; for the Church 
teaches us to know God, the Church has made tremendous 
efforts for the preservation of morals, the Church has carried 
to savage nations the name of God and civilization. With- 
out offense to God, I believe they might have been civil- 
ized without Catholicism; but then the Church, like feudalism, 
has been useful, and like it, has run, or nearly run, its course. 
There are too many things inadmissible and revolting, 
not to say odious, in Catholicism. The divine has been 
confused with the legendary; there are too many enlightened 
people nowadays for those venerable falsehoods to be 
respected. But we are traversing an epoch of transition, and, 
unfortunately, the masses are not as yet sufficiently enlight- 
ened not to pass from vain superstitions to contempt, and the 
negation of God. 

There are men who are sincerely religious, but are there 
any who are sincere monarchists? There are people, to be 
sure, who believe that monarchy is necessary to the prosperity 
of certain countries. There, I had forgotten that, the other 
day, when I said that to love monarchy, one must have the 
soul of a lackey. 

Let us suppose a country where constitutional monarchy 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 519 

makes the happiness of the people; well, the proudest and 
noblest man may sincerely adhere to it, and even have a cer- 
tain sincere attachment for the family, which has, for centuries, 
represented his country. But this is far from a servile attach- 
ment to a dynasty! 

I do not say that I think it right to be a monarchist, even 
such a one as I have just described, but we may admit that we 
are sincerely attached to monarchy, and believe in it in our 
heart, under the conditions aforesaid. 

A monarchy is certainly impossible in France, neither can 
there be a monarchy which we can conscientiously prefer to 
the republic. And is there a single candidate who is not 
debased or dishonored? Monsieur de Chambord? The Orlean- 
ists who inevitably follow him? But, after all, the Orleanists, 
patiently supported during centuries, might become "that 
family which represents the country" of whom I spoke a little 
while ago, and the stupidities exacted at a court, would be the 
sacrifice of your personal pride, which you would make to 
your country. Without doubt; but of what good is all that, 
when there is a republic, which has all that is good in a con- 
stitutional monarchy and none of its defects, and which is the 
most beautiful and most noble of governments? 

There is always something revolting in the sovereign honors 
rendered to a manikin monarch by a minister or a statesman 
of genius, who, whatever he may do, will always be the 
domestic of the monarch, who is a nonentity, a dolt, or, per- 
haps, an imbecile. 

Friday, November igth. — Instead of taking my lesson at 
home, I had my negress come to the studio, where she sang 
for over an hour. 

The gas was lighted, and fifteen women, presided over by 
Julian, placed themselves at the end of the studio, while 
Madame Ponce, with her guitar, climbed on the model table, 
in the midst of a volley of applause. If you think I am in 
good humor, ah, then, you are mistaken! Julian criticised my 



520 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

painting most severely. It was badly drawn, cold in expres- 
sion, not true in tone, and the effect misunderstood. What 
he said made me miserable! But I console myself a little in 
thinking that I knew it was not good, and, therefore, it affects 
me less. Ah, had I thought it good and been thus criticised! 
But, bah! I know what a good painting should be. 

I counted on painting to attain my aim! Wait a little, my 
old lady! 

Still, I am always afraid of melting into tears. 

Saturday, November 27M. — The competition is finished. 
I should like to predict the result now, but I really can not. I 
am not pleased with what I have done; I have dust in my eyes, 
and the days when I painted the most were dark. This is the 
first day I have felt in good spirits, so I have repainted the 
whole head, which is improved; but, all the same, I do not like 
it; but, I must admit, it is the best of all. 

I am not sure I have sketched as well as I might; and, 
although I always judge myself quite accurately, I am some- 
times mistaken. Even should I receive the medal I would 
think my work a horror, but that means nothing. In fact, I 
wish very much to have it, as it would raise my spirits. And 
then it would prove that I have painted a head, which has been 
approved by Tony, Bouguereau, Lefebvre, and Boulanger. As 
you know, the medal is given only when it is deserved; when 
there is nothing of merit the drawings are classed, and that is 
all. 

Wednesday, December 1st. — After leaving the studio, I called 
for Madame de D — , and we went to 12 Rue Cail, the resi- 
dence of Mademoiselle Hubertine Auclerc. It was a Wednes- 
day. We pulled the bell three times in vain, and were coming 
down talking with the janitor, when a young woman arrived. 
We were standing undecided, and I recognized her instantly. 

The janitor recalled us, and Mademoiselle Auclerc invited 
us to walk up. Rights of women; social siege. The words 
written on the door had, before the arrival of the young woman, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 521 

already given me something of the enthusiasm of former days, 
and I made a pretense of embracing Madame de D — . 

The office was very poor, simple, and bare. She lighted a 
fire, and seated herself before the chimney, Madame de D — 
at her right, and I at her left; my companion was the first to 
speak. Then I told her that I could not help feeling a great 
emotion in the presence of the woman, who had so courage- 
ously undertaken the defense of our rights. Madame de D — 
is French, widow of an Englishman — Norskott; I of foreign 
origin, but brought up in France, and called Pauline Orelle, 
my secret design being to make a portrait of Hubertine for 
the Salon. I have adopted the pseudonym of Daria, for paint- 
ing. It is a Russian baptismal name, very pretty, and very 
simple. In fact, she will do very well for the purpose — dark; 
her complexion is not, perhaps, clear, but it was cold, and there 
are days when we appear to disadvantage. Small hands, 
somewhat red, and small feet. Her appearance and language 
were very proper. She is sympathetic and genteel; her accent 
not too ladylike. She gave us a programme, a small pamphlet, 
and we shook hands, promising to join, to come again, to pay 
the dues of 25 francs per month, and to attend conferences. 

"Then! We shall meet again next Wednesday at 8 o'clock." 

I was very amiable, and said that the principal argument of 
reactionaries — homeliness, age, and grotesqueness of the mem- 
bers of the conferences — could not be admitted, for, "you are 
young and pretty." 

I am contented — no, not yet — for this may turn out badly, 
as everything else has done. We shall see. 

Sunday, December $th. — Doctor Potain was here this morning, 
and wishes me to go South to remain until the month of 
March; if not, I shall soon be unable to breathe or move 
from my bed. How well I am doing!! For four years I have 
done all that the celebrities have ordered, and I go from bad 
to worse. I have even gone so far as to mar my beauty by 
putting iodine on my right clavicle, and still I am no better 



522 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Could, perchance, my ordinary annoyances have any influence 
on my health? But then the larynx, the bronchial tubes are 
not generally subject to moral affections. I know nothing 
about it. I do all they tell me; commit no imprudences, bathe 
only in warm water, and still I am ill. 

Villevieille told me yesterday that when Tony came to cor- 
rect Saturday, he asked to see our competition paintings, and 
found that my eyes were peculiarly drawn, but there was 
something very pretty about it, and the tone was charming. 
He is not satisfied with the competition in general. If I do 
not obtain the medal, I shall have, all the same, made a good 
study. 

Wednesday, December 8//z. — This evening, the Citizenesses 
Alexandrine Norskott and Pauline Orelle, assisted at the 
weekly work of the u Woman's Rights Society." All this took 
place in Hubertine's small parlor. 

At the left, on a desk, stood a lamp; on the right the chim- 
ney, surmounted by a bust of the republic, and in the center 
of the room, with its back to the window, which faces the 
door, stood a table loaded with bundles of paper, ornamented by 
a candle, a bell, and a president, who appeared to be very stupid 
and very dirty. At the left of the president, Hubertine, who 
was rubbing her hands continually, and whenever she spoke, 
lowered her eyes. At the right, an old withered socialist and 
fury, who repeatedly cried, "that if there was anything to 
strike, she would strike the first blow." About twenty old 
hags, species of door-keepers in tumble-down lodging-houses, 
and a few men, the outcasts of all we can imagine; waiters 
with long hair and impossible head-coverings, whom we would 
not like to listen to in drinking-houses. I had on a black wig, 
and had darkened my eyebrows. The men clamored on social- 
ism, collectivism, and the treachery of deputies in high 
places. The red-headed woman in the corner declared war 
against religion, at which Madame de D — (Norskott) protested, 
and delivered several snatches of speeches, which produced a 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 523 

good impression. Moreover, Hubertine is very wise, and 
understood that it was not a question of proletarians, nor of 
millionaires, but of the woman in general, who claims her 
rights. It is to this view that they should confine themselves. 
Instead of that, they discuss the different shades of politics. 

We were enrolled, we paid, voted, etc., and that is all for 
the present. 

Monday, December i$th. — I scorn slanders, because I can do 
nothing against them, and by this semblance of contempt, I 
set my mind at rest, and also because there are so many 
slanders that I have become accustomed to it. You know my 
life; judge me. I do not say this that you may exalt my 
virtues, for my imprudences and follies are sufficient to 
blacken me somewhat. But then, that is done with; let us 
pass on. I accept, all the same, the responsibility; accord me 
the extenuating circumstances. 

Tuesday, December 21st. — There is no longer any buzzing 
in my ears, and I hear perfectly well. 

Wednesday, December 22d. — The medal was won by a sketch 
of the Rue Vivienne, done by a newly arrived American girl; I 
received first mention. 

Thursday, December 23d. — As it was getting late I left the 
portrait and began to make an outline, still searching for a 
subject for the Salon. Julian came in and found it very 
pretty. I then followed him into the antechamber and 
asked him if that would answer. Why yes, very well, only it 
is a calm and girlish subject, and he thought that I could find 
something better. And then he reproached me for the tenth 
time at least, for not having made the portrait of Madame N — 
on a larger canvas, and with more drapery, for the Exposition. 
It must be said that this bore comes up every time I speak of 
the Salon. But that you may understand the effect it has 
upon me, you must know that this portrait neither pleases nor 
amuses me, that I made it through complacency; that the 
model was by no means striking ; that I made it because in a 



524 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

moment of enthusiasm I promised — that idiotic enthusiasm 
which makes me willing to give anything, and makes me rack 
my brain to find what I might offer, and how I could better 
please, no matter whom, everybody. And if you think that 
this happens rarely! It is nearly always thus, except when I 
am too much wearied — and yet — 

It is not even a good quality, it is in my nature to wish to 
make the happiness of everybody and to encumber myself with 
stupid tendernesses! You do not know this and I pass for 
egotistic ; you should reverse your judgment. Thus, this 
portrait which I hastened to finish, is continually thrust under 
my nose for that exhibition which has preoccupied me for a 
year, of which I dream, and on which I had built such great 
hopes. Then it seems that this is done that I may not exhibit 
at all ; I say it seems, because it would be too cruel for me, if 
you believed it to be true. And then always that bore of a 
portrait, which he says I should do at the studio as I would 
then do it better. 

In short, I don't know what to exhibit. This said, you will 
not be astonished that I should have returned home with my 
teeth tightly clenched and not daring to make a movement, for 
fear of bursting into tears, and weeping as I do now. How 
"foolish it was for me to believe that something was possible 
for me! 

Oh, nothingness! 

Now all is chaos, and the question of the Salon could 
make me shriek with pain. This is where I have come to after 
three years of work! " You must obtain a phenomenal suc- 
cess," said Julian, but I could not. I have worked three 
years, and what have I done? What am I? Nothing. That 
is to say, I am a good pupil, and that is all; but the phenome- 
non, the thunderbolt, the splendor! 

This strikes me like a great unexpected disaster, and the 
truth is so cruel that I already try to believe that I exaggerate. 
It was painting that proved a stumbling-block in my path; as 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 525 

long as it was a question of drawing I astonished the profess- 
ors, but I have painted for two years. I am above the average, 
I know. I even show extraordinary ability, as Tony said, but 
something more was wanted. After all, it is not there. But 
it stuns me like a violent blow on the head, and I can not 
think of it, however remotely, without feeling horribly hurt; 
and then the tears come! 

Behold, this is good for the eyes! I am lost! I am van- 
quished, dead, and what frightful rage! I am heart-broken! ■ 

It drives me wild to think that I may die before I achieve 
fame! 

My despair is so great that I am sure that will be my fate. 

Friday, December 2^th. — Having had bad dreams I went to 
the studio, where Julian made me the following offer: " Promise 
me that the painting shall be mine, and I will indicate a 
subject which will give you celebrity, or at least notoriety for 
the space of a week after the opening of the Salon.'" Naturally 
I promised. He made the same proposition to A — , and after 
having written and signed the engagement, with Magnan 
and Madeleine as witnesses, half laughing, half serious, he 
brought us into his study, and offered me as a subject, a corner 
of the studio with three persons in the foreground, life-size, 
and others as accessories; and to A — the whole studio of 51 
Rue Vivienne, on a small scale. 

He demonstrated to us the advantages of the subject during 
a good half-hour; after which I returned to my portrait, agi- 
tated, and my head aching so, that I could do nothing the rest 
of the day. This was the result of yesterday. 

As to the subject, it does not commend itself much to me; 
but it may be very interesting, and then Julian is so enthu- 
siastic, so convinced; he cited so many instances of success 
with such subjects; and a woman's studio has never been 
painted. 

Furthermore, as it would be a recommendation for him, he 
would do all that was possible to give me that famous 



526 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

notoriety of which he spoke. A great undertaking like this is 
difficult. But we shall see. 



At half-past 3 o'clock we went down with Villevieille with 
the intention of seeing the booths on the boulevards, but wish- 
ing to get a glimpse of the master's new studio, we went in. 
Villevieille, who plays like an artist, seated herself at the piano 
while I wrote verses for the master. He entered in a short 
time and we spent two hours there with my aunt, who had 
come after me. 

The studio is very pretty, adjoining that of the men on the 
ground floor. We had rather an amusing time and we talked 
a great deal about the painting. Julian desires it for many rea- 
sons; first, because he has not the time to make it himself, then 
to please me, and then to enrage Breslau, and prove my strength 
to those who will not believe in me. All this is well enough, but 
here I am, suspecting that he is offering me this plan, that I 
may sink in the mire, and do nothing. It was stipulated 
that the painting should belong to him whether I finished it 
or not. 

I graciously intimated my suspicions to him; he answered, 
that I did not believe one word of what I was saying. You 
see there are only twelve of us, and the studio is small while 
my canvas is very large; and then we can not expect the pupils 
to remain immovable and pose during two months for me. I 
do not see how I can do it. I would like to do something 
else, but what? 

Sunday, December 26th. — Potain wishes me to go away; I 
refused absolutely, and then half laughingly, half seriously, I 
complained to him of my family. I asked him if angry fits of 
weeping every day could hurt the throat, and he said, of course 
it could. I will not go away. Traveling is charming, but not 
with my family, with their tiresome little bickerings. I know 
that I should rule them, but they irritate me, and then — no, 
no, no! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 527 

Besides, I scarcely cough at all now. Only all this makes 
me unhappy; I imagine that I can never extricate myself from 
it. From what? I do not know, but my tears blind me. Do 
not think that these are tears of disappointment at not being 
married; no, they are not like other tears. And yet it may be 
that, but I don't think so. 

And then, things around me are so sad, and I can not com- 
plain to anyone. My poor aunt leads such an isolated life, 
we see each other so little; I pass the evenings in reading or 
playing. 

I can no longer speak or write of myself without bursting 
into tears. It must be that I am ill. Ah, what foolish com- 
plaints! Does not everything lead to death? 

Why, then, in spite of our reason, in spite of our knowledge 
that all things end in nothing, do we persist in complaining? 

I know that, like everyone else, I am going to die, to be 
nothing. I weigh the circumstances of life which, whatever 
they may be, appear miserably vain to me, and, nevertheless, 
I can not resign myself to death. Life is then a force, it is 
something-, it is not a transient state, a duration of time which 
matters little whether it is passed in a palace or in a cellar; 
there is then something stronger, truer, than we are able to 
imagine. Life is not a transient thing, then, simply a period 
of misery, but it is our dearest possession, our all, in fact. 

We say it is nothing because it is not eternal. Ah! fools 
that we are! 

Life is ourselves; it is ours, it is all that we have; how, then, 
is it possible to say that it is nothing? If this be nothing, tell 
me what something is? 

Thursday, December 30th. — I went to see Tony and returned 
comforted somewhat. He urges me very much to paint the 
picture ("The Studio"). He says I am perfectly capable of 
painting it life-size, and it would be very interesting— a good 
study and a fine painting at the same time. I must not be 
received through favor, but through merit; if it comes out badly 



528 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

he will tell me so; but he believes that I will succeed quite 
well, and he finally persuaded me to undertake it. We then 
spoke of myself in general; we agree on this point, that one's 
ability in painting is slow to reveal itself; but he says that very 
frequently it is suddenly demonstrated, and that no one expects 
any great result after only three years of study; that I wish to 
go too fast, and that he is convinced that I will succeed; what 
can I think? I told him so many times not to spare me, and 
I insisted so strongly that he should be as frank as possible, 
that I really believe he was sincere; besides, he has no inter- 
est in deceiving nle; and then, what he has said is not so very 
wonderful after all. However, I feel somewhat encouraged, 
and I am ready to paint the picture he desires. 

What a kind, honest fellow Tony is; he says that only after 
ten or twelve years of work have the most gifted achieved any 
great success; thatBonnat, after seven years of study, amounted 
to nothing, and that he, himself, worked eight years before 
he exhibited his first painting. Of course I know all this is 
true, but as I had determined to win fame before I was twenty, 
you can imagine my feelings. It is now midnight, and I am 
beginning to be suspicious. I think Tony expressed too high 
an opinion of my ability, I wonder if he was setting a trap 
for me? 



i88i. 



Saturday, January \st. — I gave a corsage bouquet to A — 
who kissed me twice, and, as we were alone, I asked her how 
her love affair was progressing, and she told me this: It has 
now lasted six years without any kind of variation. She rec- 
ognizes his step on the stairway, and the manner in which he 
opens the door, and each time her heart beats as fast as it did 
in the first days. I can understand that; if it were otherwise 
it would no longer be love. It is said that everything through 
custom becomes stale and time weakens our feelings, but this 
is not always the case, and love which changes, or becomes 
tame, is not true love. 

I have a horror of inconstancy. Very few people are happy 
enough to be able to feel true love, which, even when it is not 
returned, is eternal. In general we are incapable of feeling 
such an absorbing sentiment, or other things intervene, and we 
content ourselves with a fragment of love which is liable to 
change at any moment; many persons shrug their shoulders 
when an eternal, unselfish love is spoken of, and it must be 
confessed that such love is very rare. 

True love may not be eternal, but it is always unselfish. 

Sunday, January 2d. — I opened "Flamarande" by George 
Sand, and I found that a lackey relates the whole story; how 
disgusting! The first twenty lines were enough to make me 
angry. I am a Republican, and that is just the reason why I 
can not consider flunkies as equals. A domestic loses certain 
rights in consenting to serve. It is odious to always mingle 
with domestics like this George Sand. Notwithstanding my 
indignation I read "Flamarande," which is the author's master- 

34 (529) 



530 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

piece. The servants are in their proper place, and the book 
is exquisite. 

Reading very fast I finished the book, which is charming. 
I will now read " Les Deux Freres," which is the conclusion 
of the story. 

Monday, January 3d. — I finished reading "Zes Deux Freres" 
at midnight. It is pretty, but it leaves me nothing to think 
about. Oh, Balzac! 

Julian will not have the partition taken down before Sunday; 
as it would disturb the pupils during the week. This makes me 
lose one week. I have left in all only ten weeks, which is not 
much. And again I think that Tony and Julian induce me 
to commence the painting, knowing I can not succeed. But 
what is their object? 

Nescio. 

Wednesday, January $th. — Tony and I reached the studio at 
the same time this morning. I showed him a small sketch, 
and we conversed about the painting. The room in which I 
shall work is very small, even with the wall removed, and, 
therefore, taking the dimensions of my canvas into considera- 
tion, it will be no child's play. 

And then that idea of having the same subject done by two 
persons, creates a sort of rivalry which is very irritating. With 
all my brave looks, I am very timid, and when A — is there, I 
am half paralyzed, and know neither how to pose anyone nor 
anything else; it is very embarrassing, and then it annoys me 
to have two on the same subject. 

Ah! this painting wearies me! Ah! I want to do something 
else! Ah! these fluctuations in my spirits are horrible! By a 
word I am raised to heights, or prostrated to the ground, and 
to keep me from despair, Julian and Tony must pass their 
lives in praising me. When they give me advice only, without 
saying anything good or bad of my work, I am miserably 
dejected. 

Friday, January jt/i. — I related the meannesses of which I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHRIRTSEFF. 531 

am the victim to all the ladies of the studio, and, as every- 
body is of the same opinion, it is another proof that I am 
right. Several of them said that they had believed me to be 
more independent, and that I had been imposed upon. I 
admit it, but it is so nice to leave to others the specialty of 
duplicities and intrigues. I said " to leave " this is not exact, 
I leave it to them because I know myself to be absolutely 
incapable of intrigues and duplicities. It is so tiresome, so 
annoying, in fact, I do not know what to do. And then it is 
also a satisfaction to know that you are better than others. 
To be imposed upon, and to know it, why it is a delicious sen- 
timent, it is almost a warrant of honesty, of candor. What 
is best, is to have a clear conscience, and to see the baseness 
of others; to see yourself clean, and others foul, even to the 
prejudice of your now interests; but the harm done one, almost 
disappears under those conditions, and the more one is vic- 
timized, the greater is the enjoyment! 

Evidently, at the first unpleasantness, I should say, if 
things are to be this way, I shall not do your painting! But 
that would be to overwhelm A — with joy, who would see her 
efforts crowned with success. That is my only reason for not 
withdrawing. 

I said all this aloud, and added that I would let things go 
on, convinced that A — will not consent to inconvenience me 
so horribly. I pretended to believe that it was impossible, and 
assumed a cheerful expression. 

Saturday, January %th. — I have a real passion for books. I 
arrange them, count them, look at them; nothing but that 
pile of old books can rejoice my heart. I stand at a distance 
to look at them, as I would at a painting. I have about 
700 volumes; but, as they are nearly all of a large size, 
they are equivalent to a much greater number of the ordinary 
size. 

Sunday, January gth. — Potain refuses to treat me, as I do 
not follow his prescriptions. Ah! I would love to leave here, to 



532 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKTRTSEFF. 

go to Italy, to Palermo. Oh, for the pure sky! the blue sea! 
the beautiful calm nights! — the thought alone of Italy makes 
me wild. It is like something very beautiful which fate may 
yet have in store for me, and for which I am not yet ready. 
No, it is not that — I do not know how to explain myself. It 
seems to me like a great happiness which I want to enjoy 
only when I am free from all preoccupation, all annoyance. 
When I say to myself, Let us go! I think immediately, No, 
not yet; I must still struggle, work, and then afterward, I 
know not when, absolute rest — Italy. I ask myself what there 
is there to attract me so, but the effect Italy has upon me is 
bewitching, magical, inconceivable. 

Oh, yes, to go away! When Charcot, Potain, and all the 
others tell me to go, it must be that I am very ill! I feel that 
the warm air of the South would cure me at once; but it is 
their fault if I do not go. 

Why, then, does not mamma come back? They say it is a 
whim on my part, but I want her all the same. All is ended. 
I have another year, perhaps; 1882 is the great date of the 
dreams of my childhood; it is 1882 that I placed as the cul- 
minating point, without knowing exactly what I meant or 
desired. It may, perhaps, be death. This evening, at the 
studio, the skeleton was dressed up as Louise Michel, with a 
red* scarf, a cigarette, and a palette knife for a dagger. In me, 
too, is hidden a skeleton. To that we must all come. Horrible 
annihilation! 

This morning I made a sketch — the flower market of the 
Madelaine. A pretty Parisian, with a little boy, buying from 
an old huckster, who stands just outside a shop filled with 
flowers. I have only to copy what I see; it is very natural, 
very Parisian, very interesting to do, and perfectly feasible in 
my studio. And then, all those flowers are ravishing. It is 
easier than the regular work of the studio, more quickly 
finished, and it can be done quietly at home. Only — I must 
know what Tony will say, for Julian " sticks to his shop." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 533 

Wednesday, Ja?iuary 12th. — All is arranged; I have com- 
lenced to make my plans, outlines, etc., and, as I think that 
I — will not finish her painting, I will make mine half natural 
size, and with many people in it. 

Thursday, January \$th {Russian New Year, January \st). 
-I still cough a little and breathe painfully; but there is no 
lotable change, no emaciation, nor paleness. Potain comes 
10 longer; my illness needs but air and sun. Potain is hon- 
sst and will not stuff me with useless medicine; but I take 
asses milk and elaterium. I know that one winter in the sun 
yould have cured me; but — I know better than anyone what 
lils me. My larynx was always easily affected, and continual 
agitations have aggravated the malady; but then, there is 
lothing the matter with me except my cough and the trouble 
nth my ears. It does not amount to much after all. 

Saturday, January 15th. — Monsieur Cot, who is to alternate 

nth Tony, entered upon his functions to-day. I did not show 

lim my work, although Julian pointed me out to him as the 

Derson of whom he had spoken. " It is Mademoiselle who is 

to paint this," he said, pointing to my large canvas, which was 

hard to carry into the studio yesterday. 

"Yes, Monsieur, it was I who suggested that subject, and I 
im to own the picture." 

Julian afterward told me that he had spoken of me to Cot, 

being a very interesting pupil, etc., and if I had not 
shown him my work, he knew it was through timidity. All 
this and much more was said to overcome my dislike to 
accept advice. 

Tony is a strong man, an earnest artist, an academician, a 
man of recognized authority, and lessons from such men are 
always excellent. In painting, as in literature, you must first 
learn the grammar, then your nature will tell you whether you 
should compose dramas or comic songs. Thus, if Tony were 
assassinated, I would take Lefebvre, Bonnat, or even Cabanel — 
which would be painful. Artists of temperament, such as 



534 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Carolus, Bastien-Lepage, and Henner, force you involuntarily 
to imitate them, and they say we acquire only the defects of 
those we copy. As a teacher, I would not like an artist who 
paints only single figures. I want to see an artist surrounded 
by a lot of historical paintings. This would give him emi- 
nence and dispose me to listen to his advice, although I 
sometimes prefer a single figure to five or six paintings of 
thirty figures each. 

Altogether, this Cot seems good-natured enough; his first 
lesson impressed me. He is fully forty-seven years old, quite 
thin, and bald. He converses quite pleasantly in the studio. 
Being strange to us all, he was somewhat timid. 

The least interesting face in the world may become so under 
certain circumstances and surroundings. I have seen the 
most common-place heads of models become superb — thanks 
to a hat, cap, or drapery. All this is to tell you modestly, that 
every evening on my return from the studio, dirty and tired, 
I bathe, put on a white robe, and drape a scarf of India-mus- 
lin and lace about my head, like the old women of Chardin and 
the little girls of Greuze. This gives me a charming appear- 
ance, and I am more beautiful than you could ever imagine 
me to be. To-night the scarf was rather large and was 
arranged in the Egyptian fashion, and, I know not how it was, 
but my face looked superb. Generally, this word does not suit 
my face; but the drapery performed the miracle. It makes 
me light-hearted once more. 

It is a habit now. To remain with my head uncovered in 
the evening disturbs me, and " my sad thoughts " like to be 
under shelter. I feel more comfortable and tranquil. 

Thursday, January 20th. — Let us speak of agreeable things. 
I went to see Tony and showed him my rough sketch, which 
he thought was very well arranged. He gave me advice, 
encouragement, and his good wishes, for the beginning I am 
to make to-morrow. 

" You have never painted a large painting?" 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 535 

"Never." 

"And you know nothing of perspective?" 

" Monsieur Ingres knew nothing of it, either." 

" He lied when he said so." 

" He was jesting, then?" 

"Assuredly, you will encounter enormous difficulties; 
observe well, and have courage, courage!" 

Courage! I am overflowing with courage, on my word of 
honor. 

This has .raised my spirits and made me cheerful. 

Tuesday, January. — This morning I did not hurry myself, 
but went to breakfast at n o'clock with the G — 's, whom I 
have somewhat neglected lately, after which I did not get to 
the studio until half-past i o'clock, and commenced my paint- 
ing with the greatest pleasure. From the first stroke we can 
feel whether we shall do it with ease, or meet with difficulties. 

Thanks be to God, I believe all will go well. Mademoiselle 
de Villevieille and the little Turk posed. I will thus sketch 
all my figures with the crayon; then, by observing the ensem- 
ble, the modifications required can be seen. This interests 
me! I am feeling well and cheerful! The heads in the fore- 
ground are from twelve to fourteen centimeters long. 

I have never been able to understand how one could give 
one's life for a beloved being, a perishable being, and all for love. 

But I can understand, nevertheless, that we should undergo 
all sorts of torture and even death, for a principle, for lib- 
erty; for something which can ameliorate the condition of 
men in general. 

I should defend all these beautiful things in France as well 
as in Russia. Country comes only after humanity. Distinc- 
tions between nations are, in fact, but shadows, and I always 
believe in treating all questions with simplicity and broadness 
of view. 

If I do not want to be exiled, it is because it would be 
useless, and I have a horror of useless sacrifices. It is not 



536 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

cowardly to choose your part in life, and it is only natural to 
prefer being martyrized like St. Paul than to be one of the 
11,000 virgins. I admit frankly, that it would grieve me to be 
an unknown heroine, but I swear to you — 

I stopped suddenly there, I was about to swear before God, 
and I am not very sure that He exists. I think that without 
the least fear. God, if He exists, can not be offended with 
my doubts, which are but an avowal of my ignorance. I 
would guard myself from denying the existence of God, but 
I can not sincerely and coldly affirm it. Oh, in tfre moments 
I suffer much, I do not reason in this way; I fall on my 
knees and pray to that God Whose existence at such times 
I thoroughly believe in. 

It seems to me, however, that there must exist a supreme 
intelligence — but not the God to Whom I am accustomed. 
But then, what is the use of this supreme intelligence? 

But I was going to — yes, swear before God that I would 
give even the last drop of my blood in the service of some 
great principle which was dear to me. 

I am calm; not a Louise Michel, not a nihilist at all; but if 
I believed that liberty was seriously threatened, I would be the 
most furious of all. 

Saturday, January 22d. — It is cold; everything is covered 
with snow; I go out before 8 o'clock every morning. 

The painting interests me. Cot has seen it, but has said 
only insignificant things, such as, "that looks well, not bad," 
and then words of encouragement. It is true that this is the 
first time that I have been corrected. After Cot had gone, 
Tony arrived. I had written to him and it was very amiable 
of him to come. Tony thinks there is nothing to be changed, 
that nothing clashes, that it is going on quite well, that it may 
be very interesting, and there is nothing but to continue as I 
have begun. Julian also came, and was very amiable. I see 
that my work interests him, as he comes to look at it quite 
frequently, and encourages me by giving me good advice 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. . 53? 

All goes so well that I can scarcely believe it. Here are two 
months before me of forgetfulness, of amusement, of hap- 
piness. 

After which, I will go to Italy, until the opening of the 
Salon. Three and a half months of a happy life; it seems too 
good to be true. 

Wednesday, January 26th. — Tuesday, on my return from 
the studio, I was feverish and I remained until 7 o'clock 
without lights, shivering in an arm-chair, half asleep and 
always with the painting before my eyes, as it has been every 
night for the last week. ' You know that A — has installed 
herself at the other extremity of the studio and is doing my 
painting, reversed, and as her most fervent desire is to surpass 
me, she thinks she can succeed by taking measurements all 
the time ; and her outstretched arm, her hand holding the 
crayon, is ever before my eyes like a dark line drawn on my 
painting. 

As I took no nourishment except a little milk, I passed a 
horrible night. I could not sleep, for my alarm-clock kept 
waking me, but the picture was always before me, and I was 
continually working on it in my imagination; but I was doing 
the contrary of what I should, forced by a supernatural will to 
efface what was well done. Oh, it was exasperating! and I 
could not remain calm. I was in a terrible state of agitation, 
trying to believe that I was dreaming, but no. But, then, it 
must be delirium, I said to myself. It must have been, and 
now that I know what it was, I would not be disturbed, if I 
were not so fatigued, body and soul. 

But what is strange is that, in my delirium, I awaited Julian 
to have his advice on a figure that I changed. 

Yesterday he came and found that I had been wrong. I 
had effaced all that was good before the dream. 

Yesterday, in the evening, by a curious phenomena, I could 
hear well, very well. 

I am worn out. 



538* JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Monday, January 31^/. — Julian and Tony (Julian especially, 
as he has seen it oftener) are pleased with my painting, and 
have told me so several times. And I was pleased with it 
myself, and much exalted. Now I am once more fallen, I am 
no longer satisfied with my composition, although I repeat to 
myself continually that Tony has seen it twice, and said "that 
it was well arranged, interesting, and that nothing should be 
changed." I have lost confidence. Julian has also told me 
to change nothing. In fact, everybody finds it good, especially 
a group in the background, which is very pretty, but I am 
not satisfied. I see it in a different light. I can no longer 
think of modifications; besides it is too late. 

It is, all the same, very curious that so many things displease 
me in this painting, and displease neither Julian nor Tony. 
It must be that they think I can do no better, and will not let 
me grow discouraged by looking for difficulties when there 
are none. 

Thursday, February 3d. — I have before my eyes the por- 
traits of my father and of my mother, taken when they were 
betrothed. I have hung them on the wall as " documents." 
According to Zola, and other philosophers more eminent, we 
must see the cause to understand the effect. I was born of a 
mother exceedingly beautiful, young, and healthy, with brown 
hair and eyes, and a dazzling complexion; and of a father, 
blonde, pale, and of delicate health, himself the son of a very 
robust father and a sickly mother who died young, and brother 
to four sisters who were more or less hunchbacked from birth. 
Grandpapa and grandmamma had good constitutions and had 
nine children, all of good health, and some of them beautiful, 
for instance, mamma and Uncle Etienne. 

The sickly father of the illustrious product which occupies 
our attention has become strong and healthy, and the mother, 
once dazzling with health and youth, has become weak and 
nervous, thanks to the horrible existence which she has had 
to endure. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 539 

I finished " IS Assommoir" day before yesterday; it made me 
almost ill, and, so much was I struck by the truth of the 
book that I seemed to live and converse with its characters. 

I was indignant to live and eat while these horrors were 
passing around me, in a lower sphere. All should read this 
book; everyone would be better for it. 

But I am calmed, the more so that I, by myself alone, could 
do no possible good. Who can fail to be impressed with the 
social questions of the day? 

Oh, yes, everyone should do what he can; but we call the 
socialists scoundrels and fools; it can not be denied that 
socialistic ideas are often Utopian. What can I do? I am 
not even capable of writing a newspaper article! 

Monday, February qth. — My painting, for an instant delayed 
because of the difficulty in placing one of the figures, goes 
on again; I feel as light as a feather. 

At i o'clock, Villevieille and Brisbane, my principal models, 
who are infinitely obliging, came with me to the Mirlitons. 
Either I was not in a critical humor, or my eyes have opened, 
or Carolus is improving, for I was dazzled by his portrait — 
the woman with a little girl in red; hitherto I have not cared 
for Carolus, his child in red and his woman in blue at the last 
Salon having disgusted me. But the two portraits of to-day 
are the most beautiful that can be imagined. I still prefer the 
woman and child, to the woman alone, who is old and made up. 

The woman with the child is dazzling. She is not pretty, 
but a fine woman, sympathetic, maternal, in a plum-colored 
dress, made in the Louis XIII. style, the breast uncovered and 
of a brilliant whiteness; the light falls full on the blonde head 
of the child, and is lost in the right hand of the woman, which 
is on the child's shoulder; the left hand holds a fan, and 
falls carelessly to the side; pearls in her hair and on her 
arms; the hands are not quite complete; and the bottom of 
the portrait is rather carelessly done, to give prominence to 
the faces and the breast; it is a spot of superb light on a ground 



540 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

of moss green. And how superbly it is treated! It is so 
broad and so true to nature. 

I prefer a picture like this to the smoked and dead can- 
vases of the galleries. My favorite, Bastien-Lepage, exhibits 
a portrait of the Prince of Wales, in Henry IV. costume, with 
the Thames and the English fleet for background; the back- 
ground recalls that of the Joconde in its tone. The face is 
a brutal one, and the portrait might easily be mistaken for 
a Holbein. I don't like it. Why imitate another's style? If 
one is making a copy, all well and good, but this is not a copy; 
it is really a decided success as an imitation. I do not envy 
that kind of a success, however. 

Oh, if I could paint like Carolus Duran! This is the first 
time that I have seen anything that I coveted; anything in 
the way of painting that I would like to own myself. After 
that, everything seemed to me shabby, dry, and dirty. 

Saturday, February 12th. — I had my painting placed in per- 
spective, and behold, that changes everything! I did not 
look at my subject in the right way; I ought to have supposed 
myself six meters away; for instance, my eyes saw the ladder 
behind Mademoiselle de Villevieille's head, and the proper 
perspective requires it to be placed more to the left. I do 
not understand how we can make what we do not see. Besides, 
when we sketch accurately, we should not make faults of 
perspective; to paint a temple, a colonnade, or things of that 
sort, perspecteurs are required; but not for a simple studio 
with women! 

I have lost four or ^.n^ days with all this; finally, Tony 
came and gave me an explanation. 

Use the perspective if it suits your arrangements; but if it 
disturbs the composition, then it will not do; you must use 
your own judgment in such cases. 

But then, how can we make a thing false, when we make 
exactly what we see? 

Tony persists in being satisfied, and tells me to go on. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 541 

I am enraptured. 

At noon, the maid came running in with a very red face. 
Monsieur Julian had been decorated. Everyone was delighted; 
we were triumphant, and A — , Neuveglise, and I ran and 
ordered a beautiful basket of flowers w T ith a big red bow, 
from Vaillant-Roseau. Vaillant-Roseau is not an ordinary 
florist, but a refined artist; 150 francs was not too much. 

We placed a card on it inscribed thus: 

"To Monsieur Julian, from the ladies' studio of the Pano- 
rama passage." 

Villevieille returned at 3 o'clock expressly to congratulate 
the master; he came up with his ribbon, and I had the pleas- 
ure of seeing for the first time in my life, an absolutely happy 
man. He admitted it himself, saying, " There are, perhaps, 
people who wish for something; I, at the present moment, 
desire nothing more in the world!" 

Then Villevieille and I went down into the studio of the hon- 
ored director to see the flowers; joy, congratulations, and even 
a little emotion! He spoke of his aged mother, whom he fears 
to overcome in suddenly announcing the news. Then of an 
old uncle who will weep like a child. " Imagine then, it is a 
village down there! You see the effect! A poor little peas- 
ant who left the place with nothing — Chevalier of the Legion 
of Honor!" 

He was very gentle in speaking of his father and his family; 
we seemed ourselves like a family party. Under the. inspira- 
tion of emotion, the least sympathetic of the pupils spoke of 
offering a bronze, or something of that sort, as a souvenir of 
the great occasion. 

Then came other pupils, my aunt, Neuveglise, etc. Julian 
was enraptured with the flowers and the ribbon bow. In 
short, this lasted until half-past 5 o'clock. 

Nonsense apart, this will give an altogether different stamp 
to the studio, and since Father Rudolphe is so happy, it will 
make him better tempered. 



542 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Sunday, February i$th. — Here is a very tender letter from 
my mother: 

''Grand Hotel, Karkoff, January 27th. 

" My adored angel, my darling child, Moussia, if you knew how unhappy 
I am without you, especially as I am uneasy about your health, and how I 
long to leave here as soon as possible ! 

14 You, who are my pride, my glory, my happiness, my joy!!! If you could 
imagine the sufferings I undergo without you! Your letter, written to 
Madame Anitskoff, is in my hands. Like a lover, I read it over and over, 
and wet it with my tears. I kiss your little hands and your little feet, and 
I pray God that J may do so in reality, as soon as possible. 

1 ' I embrace our dear aunt tenderly. 

"M. B." 

Monday, February l^tk. — I painted the head of Alice Bris- 
bane in two hours' time, and Julian told me to leave it so; and 
sometimes we are eight days in making something worthless. 
A portion of the corsage and apron was also painted. 

The perspecteur came and preached to me, for twenty- 
five minutes, the necessity of submitting myself to his infalli- 
ble rules. How about Tony's opinions, then, and my own? 

This man can not be mistaken, since these are fixed rules; 
but Tony — but I? I know nothing of it, but I must not 
go too deeply into the subject, that I may not fatigue myself 
just when I require so much liberty of mind to quietly make 
the masterpiece. 

But I think the mathematician is right. 

Friday, February i%th. — Such confusion! The sketches 
were mixed, and half the competition was not judged. Great 
tumult! Julian came up and began to explain, I know not 
what. I, who was thinking of other things, leaning on the 
door, yawned formidably, which signified clearly: Ah! how 
stupid all this is! Julian, already exasperated, turned to me, 
saying, if this did not interest me, I could go home. I could 
find nothing to reply, as I did not do it purposely, and had 
not the least intention of being impolite. 

It is now two days since the illustrious artist has corrected 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 543 

me, which makes the relations in the studio somewhat strained, 
and it annoys me! 

Saturday, February igth. — Tony tells me everything is going 
well. After giving me a good lesson, he corrected A — , but 
said very little to her, and was constrained. I believe he 
advised her to change some figures, which did not suit him. 

She turned quite red, and, instead of conversing with him, as 
usual, she remained in her place and continued her work, while 
that angel, Tony, returned to examine my painting, gave me 
advice and encouragement, and repeated several times that I 
was doing well. 

I was so enraptured that I forgot the coldness of Julian, 
although it still troubled me. 

For ten days I have done nothing but dream of grandpapa, 
mamma, my family — 

And then, most always, I dream of the people that I am to 
see the next day, or the dream continues the next night, and I 
never sleep without dreams. 

Tuesday, February 2 2d.— I have made my peace with Julian. 
I said to him: " Monsieur Julian, ah! why do you keep up a 
grudge against me for a thing I did not do purposely? Do 
come and correct me!" And he came, looking very dignified, 
saying, that since I acknowledged being in the wrong, he 
would overlook it. I did not reply, because I am not in the 
wrong, but I detest discord, and it interferes with my paint- 
ing. 

Thursday, March 3d. — I am very ill. I cough very much, 
breathe with difficulty, and there is a sinister rattling in my 
throat. I believe it is called phthisis laryngitis. 

I opened lately the New Testament, neglected for some 
time past, and twice, in the space of a few days, I have been 
struck by the appropriateness with which the lines my eye 
happened to fall upon answered my thoughts. I pray again 
to Christ. I have returned to the Virgin; to miracles, after 
having been a deist — after days of absolute atheism. But 



544 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the religion of Christ, according to His own words, resembles 
but little your Catholicism, or our own orthodoxy, which I 
abstain from following, limiting myself to following the pre- 
cepts of Christ, without embarrassing myself with allegories, 
which pass for realities, superstitions, and various absurdities, 
introduced later into religion, by men, for political or other 
motives. 

Wednesday, March 16th. — Tony found many things that 
were very good, and others that were good. In a word, it is 
not bad. After all, I am not very well satisfied. 

Bojidar, who has returned from Nice, will look after the 
transportation of the painting. 

Friday, March 18th. — I have finished the painting, save a 
little retouching. 

Julian finds that it has improved enormously in the last 
week, and it is now good. 

Tony has not seen the change in the center. The three 
principal figures, and others, and some hands in the back- 
ground have been repainted and changed. 

I feel myself that it is better now. We shall see to-morrow 
what Tony will say. 

There are in all sixteen persons, and the skeleton makes 
seventeen. 

Saturday, March igth. — Ah, well, I am not satisfied. Tony, 
as before, finds many places that are good, but the whole is 
not worthy of compliment. He explained, at length, what 
should be done, and gave a few strokes of the brush, which I 
afterward effaced. 

At half-past 4 Julian came. This interrupted my work, and 
we conversed. I had commenced at a quarter to 8. I was 
tired, the more so for not having any " very wells " from Tony. 

Ah! I know it well. It is cheerful and well-toned, but there 
is an enormous want of knowledge. 

Julian declares that he is furious to have given me such an 
extended subject for my first painting. " Ah! if it were only 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 545 

your second!" Ah, yes. "Well, Monsieur, let us leave it for 
next year." 

On hearing this, he looked at me with eyes glittering with 
the hope of finding me capable of renouncing the vain satis- 
faction of exhibiting an incomplete and mediocre thing. He 
would be charmed if I renounced it; I also, but the others! my 
friends? They would think that what I had done had been 
found too bad by the professors; that I was incapable of a 
painting; finally, that I had been rejected at the Salon. 

Question: Have I done all that I could, save a few little 
things? Yes, certainly; but I have found myself face to face 
with things absolutely unknown to me, and which I did not 
suspect. However, I have learned much. 

Julian says that I have made a great effort, that it is not 
bad, that it is interesting; but when I think what it might have 
been, it is enough to make me tear my hair. Ah, how I wish 
this painting was torn, that I might not be forced to exhibit 
it. For I am forced to it by a foolish vanity already 
punished, because I fear the indifference of the public and the 
jests of the men down-stairs. It would not be precisely jest- 
ing, but they will say: "Ah, well, the strongest of your women 
is not very strong." 

Ah, heavens! this should all have been foreseen. Julian 
should have known it! But he says it is because I have over- 
loaded my canvas; if I had continued to paint as I began, all 
would have been well! and there is in it the academy figure of 
the model, a little ten-year-old boy. No, had I done this as the 
weekly study I should have scratched it all; it is bad, and more : 
over the drawing is of very ordinary merit, without character 
and absolutely unworthy of me; it is the worst of paintings. 

Ah! it is annoying; but what is to be done? 

Sunday \ March 20th. — It was very amusing at the Palais de 

V Industrie; the crowd howled and passed remarks on the 

unfortunate canvases that came in. Bojidar had entered, and 

I had some difficulty in being recognized as an artist; finally 

35 



546 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I effected an entrance; I looked very elegant and I was stared 
at by my dear fellow-artists; we found ourselves with the eter- 
nal Bojidar, and I then saw a few paintings. 

Mine appeared quite small, although it is about two feet and 
a half in height by nearly four feet in width. A group of men 
were standing before it; I ran away, not to hear their remarks, 
and besides, it seemed to me that they knew it was I who 
had painted it. 

I spoke seriously to Julian and explained to him my feelings. 
I do not want him to believe me capable of foolish vanity; 
no, I do not say this to boast, and it will not break my heart; 
do not confound me with nervous women, no! 

In short, he understands very well and so do I. He said I 
would be honorably received, and even have some success; but 
not what we had dreamed of. The men from down-stairs will 
not stand before the painting and exclaim: "What! was this 
done by a woman?" Finally, I proposed an apparent accident 
to the picture to save my self-respect, but he will not hear 
of it. He had expected a success; he admits that his expecta- 
tions have not been fully realized, but that it may do. And 
under those conditions I exhibit! 

Alas, yes! I understand perfectly that he encourages me, 
because he does not believe that I am sensible; notwithstand- 
ing my declarations he believes me an ordinary woman, 
and thinks that by telling me the pure truth, he would wound 
me. 

However, I have told all! It is that I am an earnest pupil, 
and need not exhibit to have lessons; I exhibit through van- 
ity; therefore, if it is bad, it does not matter. At last all is 
over; I have delivered the painting; but how anxious I shall be 
until after the first of May, If I only have a good number! 

Oh, I will paint torsos and make rough sketches! You 
shall see! 

Thursday, March 2\th. — I discovered a pot of tar under my 
bed. It was a kindness on the part of Rosalie to benefit my 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 547 

health. She placed it there by the advice of a fortune-teller! 
My family thought this mark of affection on the part of a serv- 
ant very touching; mamma was deeply affected. I threw a 
pail of water on the carpet under the bed, broke a window- 
pane, and slept in my study out of rage. 

It is like that bore of warm clothing! 

My family imagine that I have a particular interest in freez- 
ing myself, and this provokes me to such a point that I do not 
half cover myself to prove the uselessness of their continual 
nagging. Oh, those people make me wild with rage! 

Tuesday, March 29th. — I learned at the studio that Breslau's 
picture has already been accepted, and I have heard nothing 
of my painting. I worked until noon, and then we went for a 
drive, which appeared atrociously long to me. 

I have reasoned and reasoned with myself, and all I have 
gained are a fever and a headache, which are hidden under a 
calm exterior, it is true. 

But that stupid Rosalie asked the ladies at the studio for 
money to send that message, in which I depicted my uneasi- 
ness to Tony, and the ladies read the message; how terrible it 
is now, I can neither appear at the studio nor remain here. 
Oh, my family! 

I do not wish anyone to suffer the pangs I suffer, whoever 
it may be. 

Wednesday,- March $oth. — I pretended to sleep until 10 
o'clock, as an excuse not to go to the studio, and I am very 
miserable. 

Here is Julian's reply. It calms me a little. Think of it! 
No, you can never imagine what the refusal of the painting 
would be to me! It would be no longer— I would have only 
myself to complain of. And I do not know which is the most 
frightful — to be yourself guilty of your misfortune, or to suffer 
because of others. Ah! this blow would strike me to the 
heart. I can not imagine what I should do. But then I must 
try to have hope. 



548 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Friday, April ist. — I am queen, and it is no April-fool joke. 
Julian came after midnight, last night, to tell me himself, on his 
way from Lefebvre's. We had punch at the studio to-day. 
Bojidar, without being requested, obtained information from 
Tidiere (a young man from down-stairs), and ascertained that 
I had number two. That is far more than I expected. 

Sunday, April 3d. — Never has Patti sung with more anima- 
tion than yesterday; her voice has such intensity, such fresh- 
ness, such magnificence! The bolero in the " Sicilian Vespers " 
was encored. Heavens, what a beautiful voice I had! It 
was powerful, dramatic, and inspiring; it made one tremble 
with emotion. And now, it is nothing, not even enough to 
speak of ! 

Am I, then, incurable? I am young. I might perhaps — 

Patti does not move me at all, but she can bring tears of 
astonishment to my eyes; it is a veritable pyrotechnical exhi- 
bition; yesterday I was positively thrilled for a moment when 
she burst into a shower of notes, so pure, so high, of such 
delicacy! 

Tuesday, April $th. — Surprise! My father has come. They 
sent for me at the studio, and I found him in the dining- 
room with mamma, who showed much affection for him. Dina 
and Saint-Amand were enraptured by the sight of this conju- 
gal happiness. 

We went out together — Monsieur, Madame, and Baby. We 
visited the stores for Monsieur; then we went to the Bois and 
stopped for an instant at the Karageorgevitch. 

He comes undoubtedly to see mamma; but I know nothing 
yet; we are too much excited. 

Wednesday, Ap?'il6th. — My father detained me until 9 o'clock, 
insisting that I should not go to work; but my torso interested 
me too much, and I did not see the august family again until 
dinner, after which they went to the theatre and I remained 
alone. 

My father does not understand how one can wish to be an 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 549 

artist, or how fame can be won in such a career. At times I 
think he only pretends to have such ideas. 

Saturday, April 2$d. — I brought B — 's portrait to Tony; 
he thinks it very well arranged; then, after a certain amount 
of advice, he said it was astonishingly well done for one who 
had worked so little as I. 

"" Yes, it is astonishingly good, and if you continue to work 
like—" 

But I interrupted him, saying that I should work still more, 
all that I possibly can. 

I am delighted that it is astonishingly good; be it so! I do 
not then make merely tolerable progress. Ah! I breathe once 
more; I am already classed among the creditable pupils. 
Ah, mercy, what luck! 

The portrait is pretty. B — is dressed in a puckered, white 
cambric dress; puffed, short sleeves; a pink ribbon tied around 
her figure below the bosom ; and a straw-colored shawl about her, 
covering her arms; the left hand holds a rose carelessly; the 
head is full face, half in the shadow and half in the light. Neu- 
tral background, greenish gray, warm, and transparent. Do not 
imagine that I believe myself talented; not yet; but it is a 
pretty arrangement, the woman is pretty, and it is astonish- 
ingly good for one who has worked for so short a time. 

Sunday, May ist. — Alexis came early, he had a ticket for 
two; therefore, as I had one, also, four of us could go — Mon- 
sieur, Madame, Alexis, and myself. I was not very well sat- 
isfied with my dress — a costume of gray woolen, very dark, 
and a black hat, elegant, but quite common-place. We imme- 
diately found my work, which is in the first room to the left 
of the room of honor, in the second row. I was delighted 
with the place, and much astonished to see how well the 
painting appeared. It is not very good, but I expected a 
veritable horror, and, on the contrary, it is quite pleasing. 

But, through an error, my name was omitted from the cata- 
logue (I called attention to it and it will be rectified). We 



550 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

could not see much in this first day, we were in such haste to 
see everything at once. Alexis and I left the family some- 
what behind, to run to the right and left; finally, we lost sight 
of them altogether, and I took his arm for a little while. I 
felt free; I came and went and had no fear. We met a crowd 
of acquaintances and I received a great many compliments 
which did not appear forced. It was natural; people who 
know nothing about the matter, see quite a large painting 
with many persons in it, and they think it quite a fine thing. 

A week ago I gave 1,000 francs to the poor. No one knows 
of it. I went to the principal office and quickly run out again 
without listening to their thanks. The administrator must have 
thought that I had stolen the money in order to give it away. 
Heaven has already returned it tome many fold! 

Abbema, who was walking with Bojidar, sent word that she 
was pleased with -my painting, that it is virile, and interest- 
ing, etc. A few minutes afterward we met, and were intro- 
duced to the celebrated friend of Sarah Bernhardt. 

She is a nice girl and I appreciated her praises, the more so 
as Bojidar announced to me that she had just quarreled with 
B — , having told him that he is declining, and that she does 
not like his paintings this year. 

We breakfasted there; in all, six hours among objects of 
art. I will say nothing about the paintings, I will only say 
here that I think highly of Breslau's painting; great qualities; 
but the drawing is bad, and the color too thickly laid on; 
fingers like birds' claws, deformed noses, and such nails, and 
such hardness of tone, and then, extravagant shadings; in a 
word, it is an impressionist picture, and Bastien-Lepage is the 
one she imitates. 

Where have you ever seen such coloring and such high per- 
spective in nature? 

But no matter, there is some good in it, and those three 
heads placed between Wolff's portrait and Bastien-Lepage's 
" Mendicant," attract attention. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 551 

Friday, May 6th. — This morning I went to the Salon, where 
Julian introduced me to Lefebvre, who said there was much 
merit in my painting — I am a very little girl! 

At home, they are continually talking of the changes which 
are to occur. They all annoy me so! My father sometimes 
has absurd ideas. He does not believe in them, but he per- 
sists in them; he says, for instance, that all depends on my 
consent to pass the summer in Russia. "It will show," said 
he, " that you do not live apart from your family." 

Have I ever done so? This knack of always making me 
the pivot on which everything moves, offends me greatly. 
Moreover, I have had enough of the subject; I can not say a 
word about it without bursting into tears. They either do 
not wish, or can do, nothing! Ah! well, I will leave all to 
chance. But at least I will not travel, I will remain quietly (!!!) 
at home, and I can grieve in my arm-chair where I am physi- 
cally well. 

Oh, this dreadful lassitude! Should I feel this way at my 
age? Is it not enough to cripple a character? 

And that is what grieves me. If ever I meet with any good 
fortune and can lead a happy existence, shall I be able to 
enjoy it? Can I take advantage of what will come? I believe- 
I do not see things as others do, and that — but this is 
enough. 

And at night, worn out and half asleep, divine harmonies 
float through my head — They come and go. I listen to 
them as to an orchestra, the melody of which is wrought out 
within me and in spite of me. 

Saturday, May ^th. — My father wishes to go to-morrow and 
mamma is to go with tiim. This unsettles everything. 

And I, shall I go? Why remain? I can study there in the 
open air and we shall return for Biarritz. 

Besides, they say Ems would do me good — ah, all is indiffer- 
ent to me. There is nothing left for me in this world. 

Sunday, May 8t/i. — Now, I am almost happy to see that my 



552 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

health is affected, because heaven will not give me any happi- 
ness. 

And when I am totally wrecked, everything will change, 
perhaps, but then it will be too late. 

Each one for himself, it is true; but then my family affect 
to love me so, and they do nothing. I am no longer anything, 
and there is a veil between myself and the rest of the world. 
If we only knew what there is on the other side, but we do 
not; however, it is that curiosity about it all which will make 
death less frightful to me. 

I cry out ten times a day that I want to die, but that is 
simply a sort of despair. We say that we want to die, and it is 
not true; it is a way of saying that life is horrible; but we 
want to live, notwithstanding, and in spite of it all, especially 
at my age. Moreover, do not be disturbed, I shall still last 
some time. No one is to be blamed, it is God's will. 

Sunday, May i$th. — However, in spite of everything, I will 
go to Russia, if they will wait a week for me. It would be 
terrible for me to be present at the distribution of prizes. 
That is a very great sorrow which no one knows of except 
Julian. I go away on that account. I went, incognito, to consult 
a great doctor, C — . My ears are not incurable, the right lung 
is affected and has been for a long time, and my throat is in a 
bad condition. I asked him in such terms that — after a thor- 
ough examination — he had to tell me the truth. 

I must go to Allevard and submit to a course of treatment. 
Well, I will go on my return from Russia, and from there to 
Biarritz. I will work in the country. I will study in the open 
air, that will do me good. I write all this filled with anger. 

But here at home the situation is tearful. On one side, 
mamma is grieved to go, and I am overpowered by the 
thought of remaining with my aunt. 

And on the other side, my aunt, who has only us, only me, 
in the world, says nothing, but is wounded to the heart to see 
that I should suffer in remaining with her. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 553 

This is beyond my strength. I remain all day with my teeth 
firmly set that I may not weep, a choking in my throat, buzzing 
in my ears, and a queer sensation as if the bones would pierce 
the flesh, which is growing less. And that poor aunt who 
wishes me to be cheerful and talkative, and to remain with 
her. I say to you it is beyond my strength; that I believe 
in nothing, and yet believe all possible. 

To remain or to go, matters not to me; but I think if I were 
to go, they would not stay there so long. After all, I do not 
know. It is the mention of the medal to Breslau which makes 
me want to go away. Ah! I have luck in nothing! I must 
then die miserable. I, who believed and prayed so much — 
Well, after the most affecting scenes in the world, the departure 
is fixed for Saturday. 

Monday, May 16th. — I went to see Julian and we had a long 
and serious conversation. He says it is a folly for me to go to 
Russia. " The doctors send you to the South and you go to 
the North." He said such wise and sensible things to me that I 
am still more undecided. And that I may not think it is a ques- 
tion of shop, he advises me to go outside of Paris, to work in 
the country where it will be warm and where I will have plenty 
of air and sunshine all day. I must then make a large 
landscape with figures during the summer, and a studio 
painting in the winter; that will give me two very different 
subjects. 

He does not wish me to walk in the footsteps of anyone, 
neither Bastien nor another (meaning Breslau); I am one of 
those who must retain their individuality. In short, he thinks 
well of me and always gives excellent advice, good and encour- 
aging words. And very severe withal; therefore I am obedient. 
I open my heart to him and I believe he is flattered. 

But then, to be able to paint well, I must take care of myself. 
I know that well. Julian squarely advises me not to go to 
Russia although it would please my family. "Your family 
will afterward regret it." He said the same to mamma at 



554 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the risk of angering her, when she came for me. The whole 
thing troubles me! Ah! I am not happy — but I will take care 
of myself; I will leave for Allevard, to remain five weeks; 
that will take me into July. Then I will pass a month in the 
forest of Fontainbleau — no, I will remain in Paris until June 
15th; on the 15th I will go to Allevard until July 20th, then a 
month at Fontainbleau, frequently coming to Paris to show my 
studies; about August 20th, return, prepare my clothing, and 
reach Biarritz on September 1st; after one month of Biarritz, 
return here and work, at the same time taking care of myself. 

And hang Russia! 

Friday, May 20th. — In two words I have begun to hesitate 
again! Potain came, and I counted on him to save me from 
going to Russia without vexing my father too much. Good, I 
need not go. 

But it was Bojidar who brought the fatal word: " The com- 
mittee examined the Salon to-day and greatly admired Breslau's 
painting." 

Oh, misery! The tears which had already been flowing 
now poured in torrents. My father and mother thought 
that I was grieved by what Potain said, and I could not admit 
the truth, but wept incessantly; no wry face or sobs, but big 
silent tears in profusion, which fell like a summer rain without 
leaving many traces on my face. 

In fact, Potain has not said much of anything new, and he 
has given me the means of remaining here; but it is Breslau's 
painting! That is terrible! In short, what can I say? One 
day! — I requested Potain to exaggerate my state and to say, 
simply, to my family, that the right lung was affected, that my 
father might not be vexed if I remained. 

And here they are both in the deepest grief, walking on tip- 
toes. Ah, misery! Their consideration for me wounds me; 
their concessions exasperate me — and no point of support! 
What shall I grasp at? Ah! painting is a simple farce! You 
know, in moments of anxiety, we are never despairing when 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 555 

we can see a luminous point in the horizon. I consoled my- 
self, saying: Wait a little, painting will save me. Now I doubt 
everything. I believe neither in Tony nor in Julian. 

Is it by shedding tears that I hope to learn how to paint 
well? 

Monday, May 23d. — At last everything was packed and we 
went to the station. Then, at the moment of departure, my 
hesitation took possession of the others; I began to weep 
and mamma with me, and then Dina and my aunt; and my 
father asked what was to be done. I answered with tears; 
the bell rang, we ran to the carriage, for which they had taken 
no ticket for me, and they entered an ordinary compartment 
(which I would not do). At last, however, I tried to enter, but 
the door was closed. I had no ticket and they left without even 
saying good-bye. You see we abuse and say we detest one 
another, but when it comes to separation we forget every- 
thing. On one side mamma, on the other side my aunt, and 
in the middle my father. He must be furious although he 
behaved very well; but this useless journey, this loss of time, 
and then I know not what more. I wept to go, and I weep to 
remain. Breslau has but little effect on me, but in short — I 
no longer have any ideas, but I really believe that here I can 
take better care of myself, and then I ought to lose no time. 

Tuesday, May 24///. — I am in despair because I did not go. 

I have gratuitously offended my father and I remain here; my 
summer will be spoiled, anyhow, because I must go to the 
springs at the end of June. Instead, then, of passing three 
weeks here, to witness the conferring of the medal on Breslau, 
to remain shut up, sad, languishing in this Paris where it is 
suffocating, I should have been in the country, and I really 
need a change for the sake of both my health and my spirits. 
Oh, I am an idiot! O — cries and implores me to remain, 
believing this journey would be my grave, and that the terrible 
Monsieur Bashkirtseff would keep me there forever. What 
stupidities! And I, who am enough softened— enough what- 



556 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ever you wish — to allow myself to be influenced! I shall 
telegraph to Berlin for them to wait for me there. 

Berlin, Wednesday, May 2$th. — I left yesterday; my aunt, 
who saw I was sad at remaining in Paris, did not weep, 
fearing that I should reproach her with influencing me by her 
tears, but she was broken-hearted and believes she will never 
see me again. The poor woman who worships mamma, adores 
me doubly on that account, although I am as disagreeable as 
can be. I even ask myself how it is possible for me to recom- 
pense so badly her sublime devotion. From the time of my 
birth, grandmamma accustomed her to look upon me as a par- 
agon; now, whatever I may do, all she thinks of is my 
welfare. I do not even have to speak, she watches my fancies, 
and the more so because, knowing that I am very ill and 
unhappy, she can do nothing but make my material life as agree- 
able as possible. 

I am ill and my poor family, who exaggerate everything, 
believe that the disease may prove fatal. 

Moreover, I have always had the consolation of seeing the 
most beautiful fruits, the earliest flowers on the table with my 
favorite dishes, each time I have had an ostensible annoyance. 
These attentions may appear small, but there is something 
touching in them, and I can not appear kind; poor aunt has 
noticed, without any hint from me, that I avoid as much as 
possible all human beings; therefore, having seen that the sup- 
per is prepared, she slips away and leaves me alone with my 
book. When there are three or four persons of the family 
present, I suffer their company and talk with them; but with 
one alone, I become wearied and I remain sulky, while 
reproaching myself with showing so little tenderness to a 
woman so devoted and good — for the women of my family 
are very good — my poor aunt on that score is an angel. 

I left Paris yesterday. 

I went to see Tony who is very ill, and I left a letter of thanks 
for him; then to Julian's, who had gone out. He might, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 557 

perhaps, have made me change my mind and remain, and I had 
to go. For the last week at home we have not dared look at 
each other for fear of bursting into tears, and when I remained 
alone, I wept continually, while feeling that it was cruel to 
my aunt. But she must have seen that I wept as much when I 
thought of leaving her. She believes I do not love her at all, 
and when I think of the life of sacrifice of this heroic creat- 
ure, I am melted to tears; she has not even the consolation 
of being loved as a good aunt! However, I love no one better. 

At last I am in Berlin; my family and Gabriel were at the 
station to meet me, and we dined together. 

What is the most horrible of all is my deafness. It is the 
hardest thing I have ever had to bear. I now dread every- 
thing I once desired, and it is a frightful situation for me. 
Now that I have more experience, that I commence, perhaps, 
to show some talent, that I know better how to take advan- 
tage of things, it seems to me that the world would be mine 
if I could hear as before. And the doctors w T hom I have 
consulted told me that in my disease this scarcely happens 
once in a thousand cases. " Be reassured, you will not 
become deaf because of your larynx; that happens rarely!" 
and yet it has happened to me. You can not imagine how 
much dissimulation, what continual tension it requires to try 
to hide this odious infirmity; I succeed with those who have 
known me before, and who seldom see me now; but at the 
studio, for instance, they know all about it. 

And how much it affects the intelligence! How is it possi- 
ble to be quick or witty? 

Ah! all is over! 

Faskorr {near Kieff) y Thursday, May 26th. — I needed this 
long journey; the plain, the plain everywhere. It is very beau- 
tiful; I am wild over the Steppes — as novelties — it is almost 
the infinite; when there are forests or villages, it is not the 
same. What charms me especially is the pleasant and 
amiable look of all the employes, even the lowest of them, as 



558 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

soon as you enter Russia; the people at the custom house 
converse as if they knew you. I have already had eighty-six 
hours of railway travel, and I have still thirty more to 
endure. Such distances make one dizzy! 

Gavronzy, Sunday, May 29th. — Last night we arrived at 
Poltava. I counted much on the joys of the welcome we 
would receive, a good warm supper, etc. 

Paul and Alexander came alone to meet us, and had not 
even engaged our rooms at the hotel, thinking we were going 
directly to the country. Horrible! 

Paul has become frightfully stout. 

This morning came Kapitanenko, Wolkovisky, etc. A new 
caller also, Lihopay, quite passable and well-bred. My 
father was very happy, but somewhat confused to see the sad 
effect the country has upon me after five years' absence. I do 
not try to dissimulate, and now that I am more familiar with 
my father, I do not flatter him. 

It was cold, the roads were frightfully muddy, and Jews 
everywhere. The whole country is in a state of siege, and 
sinister rumors are heard. Poor country! 

We have arrived in the country — 

The fields are still inundated by the river, mud-puddles, 
and pools of water everywhere, fresh grass, lilacs in bloom; 
but it is a valley and I fear it will be damp. Fine way of 
taking care of myself! It is mortally gloomy. I opened the 
piano and improvised something mournful. Coco howled 
dismally. I felt terribly sad, and I formed the project of 
leaving to-morrow. 

They served a soup which smelled of onions; I left the 
dining-room. The princess and Paul's wife were somewhat 
amazed. Paul's wife is quite pretty, superb black hair, a 
beautiful complexion, and a good figure; a very nice little 
woman on the whole. 

I tried to be like /everybody else, but did not succeed; 
unpacking cheered me somewhat. But I am noc what I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 559 

should be, and with reason. I must take care of myself, and 
how can I do so in the midst of all this humidity? Ah, 
Julian was right! 

Mamma has brought me all the journals that speak of me. 
What was my despair in Paris is my joy here. 

Wednesday, June ist. — Madame Gorpintchenko has arrived; 
Michel has departed. 

It is beautiful weather, and the lilacs are in bloom; the 
spring is adorable, but too cool for my wretched carcass. 

I did not bring any canvas, and can not find here what I want. 

Saturday, June 4th. — Julian writes that Tony Robert- Fleury 
caught cold while driving from his mother's house in an open 
carriage, and he has been between life and death ever since. 
He mourns for him as if he were already dead. Is it not 
atrocious enough, not to speak of his father, who is eighty-five 
years old, and his mother, whom poor Tony feared so much 
to lose? 

Sunday, June ^th. — I have telegraphed to Julian to obtain 
news of Tony, and I am anxious. 

I remained out-doors all day and made studies. The 
weather is very beautiful. I can not conceive the possi- 
bility that this man, still so young, can die — although he has 
changed very much in the last six months. 

Monday, June 6th [May 2$th). — Tony is out of danger! I 
am enraptured. Rosalie burst into tears, saying that if he had 
died it would have made -me ill; this is a little exaggerated, 
but she is a good girl. At the same time as the dispatch, 
came a letter from Julian, giving the good news. 

This is what Zola says of Jules Valles: " A sensitiveness 
hidden for fear of ridicule, a brutality often intended, and 
above all, the passion of life, of human bustle, and you have 
all his nature; and he is also very lively, 'hoaxing' con- 
tinually, perhaps in fear of being hoaxed, and hiding his tears 
under a ferocious irony." I think that resembles me. But it 
seems so stupid to pretend to know one's own nature. 



560 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Monday, June i$th (ist). — I have commenced a peasant- 
girl, life-size, standing, leaning against a hedge weaved with 
dry branches, like a basket. 

Straw and boards have been placed on the ground to pre- 
serve me from the dampness, and they have erected a little 
pavilion for me with two rooms in it, so I am very comfort- 
able. Mamma, Paul, Nini, papa, Michel, Dina, and Sper- 
andio spent a part of the day there. 

Monday, June 27//Z (151/1). — I have been working since — 
this is the thirteenth day, for the rain has made me lose 
several days. It is almost finished, I intend to do the head 
over again for the third time, if I have time. 

Paul and his wife have gone to visit one of mamma's prop- 
erties; Monsieur and Madame are at Poltava. We are four 
left: The princess, Dina, Sperandio, and I. The rain obliged 
us to seek shelter in the pavilion ten times (a true mounte- 
bank carriage), and now that we have come into the house, it 
is beautiful; I lost one hour. Day before yesterday, I wanted to 
destroy my canvas; since yesterday, I am in a fever to work. 

I have made the rough sketch of one of my paintings for 
the Salon. The subject enchants me, and I am burning with 
impatience to begin it. 

Wednesday, July 6th [June 24H1). — I have finished my paint- 
ing, which is better than anything I have done before, espe- 
cially the head, which I have done over three times. But 
having sketched somewhat carelessly, the arm is a little short, 
and there is some awkwardness in the pose. Now, these 
defects are unpardonable in me, as I know perfectly well how 
to avoid them. I should have dropped it several times, for 
it would have been better to have made several studies, than 
to finish this one with an arm too short. I hoped that my 
father would buy it, as he has not made me any present since 
I came here; but he does not seem to care for it. 

There is a fair at the village. We went and amused our- 
selves by throwing all the sweetmeats we could find to the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 561 

crowd. It was like the confetti at the carnival. It causes a 
beautiful, spontaneous movement; all the hands are extended 
at once, everybody precipitates themselves on the ground, and 
it is like a human wave. 
I delight in a crowd. 

Monday, July p/z. — Nini, her sister, and Dina came with me 
into my room, and some one spoke of the bad luck attending 
the breaking of a mirror, and three candles. I have had three 
candles in my room several times since I have been here. Am 
I going to die then? There are moments when this idea turns 
me cold. But, when I believe in God, I fear less, although I 
still wish to live. Perhaps I shall become blind. That would 
be the same thing, for then I would kill myself. What is there 
on the other side? But what matters that? We shall escape 
from the sorrows we know of, at all events. Or perhap3 I 
shall become entirely deaf. I write with inveterate obstinacy 
this word, which scorches my pen. My God! but I can not 
now even pray as formerly. What if it should mean the death 
of a near relative; of my father, for instance? But if it were 
mamma? In that case I should never forgive myself for ever 
having spoken a cross word to her. 

What undoubtedly prejudices God against me is, that I 
! take into account the least movement of my soul, and I can 
j not help thinking that such a thought may be set down to my 
credit, and another on the wrong side of the ledger; for from 
| the moment that I recognize a thought is good, there is no 
] merit in it whatever. If I have any impulse that is gen- 
erous, or good, or Christian-like, I perceive it at once; conse- 
I quently, I feel satisfaction, in spite of myself, in thinking of 
] what it should, in my opinion, yield me, and in these considera- 
! tions, the merit fades away. Thus, a little while ago, I thought 
i of going down and throwing myself in mamma's arms, and 
i humbling myself before her, and, naturally, the thought which 
j followed this one was one of self-praise, and the merit of the 
i impulse was lost. Then I felt that it would not pain me much 



562 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

to act thus, and that, in spite of myself, I would do it some- 
what cavalierly or foolishly, for a genuine, serious dramatic 
exhibition of feeling between us would be impossible. It 
would not seem natural, for she has always, seen me turn 
everything into ridicule. She would think that I was acting a 
part. 

Saturday, July gth. — We went on a pilgrimage to-day to 
Krementchoug, where we sailed on the Dnieper. It was I who 
induced them to take the excursion. 

After thousands and thousands of disagreements, it was 
finally decided to go. You can not imagine what a commo- 
tion it all made. " Why do we go?" " And perhaps it is bet- 
ter not to go.'' " How can we carry it out?" " Shall we find 
something to eat and a place to rest in?" At last we decided 
to take Vassil to do the cooking. There is a mountain near 
Gavronzy, which, whenever we go anywhere, we have to cross, 
and consequently, we should be used to it. But no; each time 
it is like a new and frightful obstacle, which has just arisen. 
At last, after each had said in turn that he would remain at 
home, or that this one or that one had told him he would 
remain, we started in three carriages — Monsieur and Madame, 
Dina, the Swiss girl, Catherine, Nini's sister, and Sperandio; 
Nini, myself, Paul, and Micha. About half way, Paul and 
Micha began to sing gaily. This amazed the peasants on the 
way. We found the three brothers Babanine — Alexander, 
Etienne, and Vladimir — at the hotel drinking champagne. 

Alexander spoke of the heart, of relationship, of recollec- 
tions of youth — briefly, he was as open as a coach-house door, 
when it is open. I immediately guessed that there was some- 
thing up; in fact, he had just bought Etienne's share of the 
inheritance. Etienne has succumbed to him like the others. 
There remains only Nicolas, but, in spite of his cries, he will 
also give in, and then Alexander will have all his father's 
estate. That man is a power. He walks straight to his aim, 
and will reach it, He is a power. I bow to and respect him 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 563 

almost. He has quarreled with Paul, and will eat him up, too; 
therefore, I shall try to make peace between them. 

Having no business together, our relations were courteous, 
and I took his arm this evening at the city garden. But it 
seems we have made the day more bright and gay than has 
ever been dreamed of in Poltava, and it will be remembered. 
I will tell you about it. 

We dined in the aforesaid garden, a table with fifteen covers 
occupying the whole right side of the terrace, and where the 
public was not allowed to annoy us. The people came as near to 
us as they could, to see us eat, and to hear the orchestra, which 
played for us, and the chorus of women that had been 
secured. We listened to Bohemian songs, badly sung by 
Russian and Swiss women. I wished to ring the alarm bell, 
for the people did not come fast enough. About 8 o'clock the 
garden was filled. 

Monday, July nth. — This is St. Paul's day. We secured 
the military band at Gavronzy, which played during dinner, 
and in the evening on the balcony. In transporting soldiers 
and instruments, one of the postilions had his leg broken, 
and we immediately gave him the difference of the game of 
the day, which amounted to fifty roubles. The idea was 
mine. Few people — Lihopay, Etienne, and the proprietor of 
the hotel where we stopped at Poltava. The gentlemen played 
cards with the latter and admitted him into their society. He 
married a young lady of noble family. But the society of 
an innkeeper! With the family, we were fourteen. I wore a 
beautiful dress. Dina also looked very charming. For a while 
I conversed and laughed with Lihopay and Micha, as if it 
interested me, while the others listened to the amusing things 
we said. We danced, papa with mamma, having Paul and his 
i wife opposite, Micha and I facing the Swiss girl with Etienne, 
Sperandio and Catherine. The hall was large, the music 
, inspiring^ and the feet tripped lightly. Dina danced alone all 
i sorts of fancy steps, and quite gracefully. I, also, with my 



564 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

atrocious grief (my ears), which turns my hair white, danced 
for a short time, without any pretense of gaiety. 

Wednesday, July i$th. — It is almost always a sad thing to go 
away. We arrived at Poltava about 7 o'clock. I made the 
journey with Dina, and we conversed a little about our visit. 
However incredible this may seem, there was exhibited to us, 
during our stay, neither delicacy, nor morals, nor modesty, in 
their true sense. 

In small towns in France we revere a confessor, or we have 
a grandmother, an old aunt, whom we greatly respect; but 
here there is nothing of the sort. 

I believe we shall leave to-morrow. 

I will stop at Kieff to have masses said. The darkest pre- 
sentiments torment me, and I dread so much the meaning of 
all those forebodings! At Paul's feast, I found a candle at my 
place at table, forgotten there, it seems, by the man who 
lighted the chandeliers. And all those broken mirrors! I can 
not help fearing that some misfortune is impending. 

Friday \ July \$th. — We are at Karkoff. We found Micha 
and Lihopay on the platform. They left Poltava before we 
did. 

I cough considerably, and I find it difficult to breathe. I 
have just been looking in the mirror, expecting to find the 
traces of illness; but no, nothing yet. I am slight, but very 
far from emaciation. Then, my bare shoulders have a healthy 
look, which does not go with the cough and the noises I hear 
in my throat. My hearing does not improve. I have taken 
cold, that is why I cough more. We entered a convent with 
mamma and she knelt with fervor before a painted image of 
the Virgin. How can anyone pray to an image? I had the 
-firm intention of doing so, but I could not; but when I am at 
home I pray, and I feel better after doing so, I assure you. 
I believe that God can cure me, and He alone; but He would 
have to forgive me first for so many little wrong things I have 
done. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFP. 565 

Saturday, July 16th. — This morning big Pacha, my old 
lover, arrived. They wished us to remain a day 'longer, and 
then it was proposed that everybody should go as far as 
Soumy, where we are at the present time. Pacha has grown 
stout; but he is the same shy, harmless being, as ever. A 
prosaic dreamer of rugged appearance, and yet cold and com- 
mon-place. We saw each other only at the station, where we 
met Uncle Alexander, just arrived from Poltava, having 
promised to go to Soumy on business. Finally, we are all here 
— papa, mamma, Dina, Uncle Alexander, and I. The others 
remained behind. It is needless to say we parted with regret, 
good wishes, and kisses. 

Thursday, July 21st. — Here we are at Kieff, the holy city — 
" the mother of all Russian cities," according to St. Vladi- 
; mir, who, having been baptized, forced all his people, willing 
* or unwilling, to be baptized also, by driving them into the 
' Dnieper, where I think some must have been drowned. But 
j the imbeciles bemoaned their idols, which were thrown into the 
river at the same time that the people were baptized. 

We are still so ignorant of Russia, where so much beauty 

and richness remain unknown, that I will, perhaps, be telling 

! you something new in saying that the Dnieper is one of the 

beautiful rivers of the world, and that its shores are very 

J picturesque. Kieff is built in disorder, pell-mell, no matter 

1 how. There are the lower town and the upper town, and the 

I streets are very steep. It is not comfortable, the distances 

! are so enormous; but it is interesting. There is nothing left 

of the ancient city; besides, the civilization of those days 

contented itself with temples, meanly built, without art or 

solidity; that is why we possess none, or few, monuments. If 

I were given to exaggeration I would say there were as many 

churches as houses. Cathedrals and convents are very 

numerous; in fact, there are sometimes three or four in a row. 

All these have gilded cupolas, the walls and columns painted 

white or whitewashed, with green cornices and roofs. Often 



566 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the 'whole fagade is covered with images and scenes from the 
lives of the saints, painted with extreme simplicity. 

We first went to Lavra, a convent, where pilgrims come by 
the thousand every day from all parts of Russia. 

The iconostase, or wall, which separates the altar from the 
body of the church, is covered with painted images inlaid in 
silver. The shrines and doors, which are completely covered 
with silver, must represent a good round sum. % The tombs of 
the saints are also covered with embossed silver, and the 
chandeliers and sconces, and other things of the kind, are all 
in silver. It is said that these monks have sacks of precious 
stones. 

Moreover, it is well known that they are as rich as the 
Rothschilds. 

Peter the Great and Nicholas borrowed 10,000,000 roubles 
from them, which they never returned, and they were right. 
French monks give to the poor; these, here, never give to 
anyone. 

You could not imagine how much money the pilgrims bring, 
even supposing that each pilgrim gives but one* penny a day. 
And the masses that are paid for, and the candles which are 
consumed in prodigious quantities; and then, besides, there is 
the revenue from the sale of the medals and images which 
have been blessed. The great curiosity is the catacombs, 
subterranean passages very narrow and very low, damp, and 
naturally dark. Each one is provided with a lighted candle. 
We were conducted by a monk who hastily pointed out the 
open coffins containing the bodies of the saints, which are 
like mummies, all dried up, and that is the miracle, they say. 

Mamma prayed with unexampled fervor. I am sure that 
Dina and papa also prayed for me; but the miracle was not 
accomplished. You laugh? Ah well, I almost counted on it. 
I attach no importance to churches, relics, or masses; no, but 
I relied on prayers, on my prayers, and I still rely on them 
to-day. They have not yet been heard, but perhaps they may 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 507 

be some day. I believe only in God; but is the God I believe 
in a God Who listens and gives His attention to our affairs? 

God will not cure me at once in a church. No, I have 
deserved nothing of that kind; but He will take pity on me 
and inspire a doctor, who will do me good, or perhaps, He 
will allow time to do so. But I shall not cease to pray. 

Mamma believes in images and relics; in fact, her religion 
is paganism, like that of most people who are pious and — not 
very intelligent. 

Perhaps, had I believed in images and relics, the miracle 
might have taken place; but there, truly, even when kneeling 
and praying, I could not believe. I can better understand 
that we should kneel anywhere and pray to God simply. God 
is everywhere; but how to believe in such things? It even 
seems to me that this fetichism insults God and wrongs Him. 
And for many persons, for the majority of pilgrims, God is 
altogether lost sight of; they see only a piece of withered 
flesh which has the power of performing a miracle, or a 
wooden image which they can invoke, and which will hear 
them. Am I wrong? Are they right? The most enlightened 
should be in the right. At least, the God I believe in must 
be an enemy of all those masses which are said to be essential 
to the true faith. 

Paris, Tuesday, July 26th. — I am here at last. Here is life. 
Among other places, I went to the studio. I was received 
with acclamations and kisses. How much I care for the 
studio, and especially for Julian's friendship and aid. I feared 
he would have received me coldly, as I had broken a mirror, 
etc. Ah, well! no, the annoyance does not come from that 
side. Tony is entirely recovered. 

Wednesday, July 2p/i. — I brought a design for a painting to 
Julian with which he was not enraptured, and then for two hours 
he spoke of nothing but my health, without mincing matters. 
It seems my condition is serious. I must believe it, since two 
months of treatment have brought no improvement. I know 



568 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

myself that it. is serious, that I am ill, that I am becoming 
emaciated! But still, I will not wholly believe in such horrible 
things. Breslau has received her mention; and has several 
orders for pictures. Madame — , who patronizes her a good 
deal, and at whose house she has met the principal artists, has 
ordered' her portrait for the next Salon. She has already sold 
three or four things; in fact, she is launched. And I? I am 
consumptive. Julian tries to frighten me to force me to take 
care of myself. I would take care of myself if I had any con- 
fidence in the result. It is dismal at my age. Julian is right; 
a year from now, there will be a great change in me; that is 
to say, there will be nothing left of me. To-day, I went to see 
Colignon. She will soon die; there is one who is changed 
indeed! Rosalie had warned me, but I was shocked; she looks 
like death itself. 

And then the room was filled with the odor of that strong 
broth which is given to the sick. It was horrible! 

That odor is still in my nostrils. Poor Colignon, I brought 
her some soft white silk for a dress and a scarf. This silk 
pleased me so that I hesitated five months, and then decided 
to make this immense sacrifice by the evil thought that heaven 
would repay me. These calculations take away all the merit 
of good deeds. Can you fancy me weak, emaciated, pale, 
dying, dead? 

Is it not an atrocious thing that we pass away thus? But, at 
least in dying so young, we inspire pity in all. I am moved, 
myself, in thinking of my end. No, that does not seem pos- 
sible. Nice; fifteen years old; the three Graces; Rome; the 
follies of Naples; painting; ambition; unequaled hopes; and 
to end in a tomb, without having had anything, not even 
love! 

1 was right when I said that life is impossible when one is 
constituted as I am, and has been brought up under circum- 
stances like those which have ruled my life. To live long 
would be too much to expect in such cases, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 509 

Nevertheless, we see people who are far more fortunate than 
I ever dreamed of being. 

Ah! for almost every grief we may experience, there is some 
consolation. I was right, then; there is nothing so horrible as 
the pangs of wounded vanity; they are worse than death. But 
all the rest? The death of our friends, disappointed love, 
prolonged separations. Still, all that goes to make up life. 
Here I am on the point of crying. I even believe that I 
shall die. I am almost sure that I have grown weaker. 
Ah! I do not complain of that, but of my ears! And then, 
Breslau, now; Breslau is one distress the more. On all sides 
I am repulsed with loss, beaten. 

Ah! well, give me death, then. 

Tuesday, August gf/z. — I went to the doctor's this morning 
for the third time in two weeks. He makes me come in order 
to get his fee, for his advice is always the same. 

Truly it is enough to drive me crazy. Deafness happens to 
one in a thousand, they tell me, and I must be that one! 
Every day you see patients with throat diseases, consumptives 
who suffer, who die, but who do not become deaf. Ah! it is 
a misfortune so unexpected, so horrible! What? All this is 
not enough? I have lost my voice. I am ill, and I must also 
bear this anguish without name! It must be to punish me 
because I have complained of trifles. Is it God Who thus 
punishes me? The God of forgiveness, of goodness, of mercy? 
But the most wicked of men, would not be more pitiless! 

And I am tortured at every instant. To have to blush 
before my family, to feel their kindness in speaking louder! 
To be afraid every time I enter a store that I shall not hear! 
This is not so bad, however, but with my friends it is frightful 
and cruel to be obliged continually to employ stratagems to 
hide my infirmity. And my painting, and the models! I 
do not always hear what they say to me, and tremble lest 
they shall speak to me; and, of course, my work is affected by 
this. When Rosalie is with me, she comes to my aid; alone 



570 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I am seized with dizziness and my tongue refuses to say: 
"Speak a little louder, I do not hear very well!" My God, 
have pity on me! Not to believe in God would be to die at 
once of despair. The lung affection came in consequence of 
the throat, and the throat caused what has happened to the 
ears. Now that must be treated! But I have always been 
under treatment. Doctor Krishaber is to blame for it all; it 
is in consequence of his treatment that I have — 

Oh, God, must I then be so atrociously separated from the 
rest of the world? And it is I, I, I! Ah! there are some to 
whom it would not be so painful, but — 

Oh, what a horrible thing! 

Wednesday, August 10th — Thursday, August nth. — I go to 
Passy every day, but no sooner am I installed there than I begin 
to hate my work. I had to dismiss Fortunata and pay her for 
six sittings without having derived any advantage; that was the 
painting over which I was wild. Julian said it would require 
to be modified and the composition improved; that, in itself was 
sufficient to upset me, as I do not know what to do. In spite 
of all, however, I commenced it, but then I became disgusted 
with it. The truth is, I have but twenty days left, and if it 
should rain, I shall lose some of those. 

My painting represents a wall upon which is pasted an elect- 
oral notice, before which stands a grocer-boy with his basket; a 
workman who is laughing at a gentleman with a napkin under 
his arm; a stupid-looking fop; and a man in an immense Bona- 
partist hat which completely hides his face; in the background, 
a little woman. It is half life-size. Everything combined is 
driving me crazy; my hand trembles while I write. No sooner 
have I an idea than I am disgusted with it. I have nothing but 
this painting, and I have lost so many days and I am still unde- 
cided. What a horrible temperament mine is! When I am at 
liberty to do as I wish, I no longer know what to do. It is my 
illness which renders me stupid, and Breslau's honorable men- 
tion paralyzes my arms. Heaven is just! As to this painting, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B^SHKIRTSEFF. 571 

Julian and the others say it is neither new nor original; 
granted! I do not care to argue the question. 

Still, it is realistic, and, if it is well executed, the subject is 
always a good one. I must know if Alexis will be here during 
August; he poses as the fop, and without him I can not finish 
the painting, and I have not yet found the old gentleman with 
the napkin. All this would be nothing if I were satisfied and 
in good spirits. I lose my time and wear out my eyes in read- 
ing to calm myself. 

The worst of all is, that there is no one whose advice I. can 
ask. Tony is in Switzerland, Julian is at Marseilles, and I am 
in despair! As soon as I decide anything, a voice says to me, 
" Never mind what you try to do, it will not be successful." If 
I give up this subject, someone else will do it, and I shall be 
mortally vexed; if I paint it, I shall do it badly, for I have 
only twenty days left, and it will probably rain. Whatever I 
do will certainly turn out to be just the contrary of what 
I should have done; so there is no use in worrying about it. 
You see what a frightful state of doubt I am in! 

My hair is turning white; one day I found two white hairs 
in front; that was since I began to grow deaf. Is it not horri- 
ble enough? 

I ought to cut short my complaints. I have nothing, to be 
sure, but then I am no longer worthy of anything. Social life, 
politics, intellectual enjoyments, I take part in as if in a fog, 
and when I risk attempting to derive any pleasure from these 
things, I risk also covering myself with ridicule or passing for 
a blockhead. I have to affect all sorts of eccentricities; pre- 
tend to be brusque and absent-minded, in order to hide from 
Saint-Amand the fact that I do not hear well! It is enough to 
discourage an angel! Is it possible to admit that we are deaf, 
when we are young, elegant, and have great pretensions? Is 
it possible to solicit indulgence and pity under such condi- 
tions? Moreover, why should I? My brain is giving out and 
the room is whirling about me! Oh, no, there is no God such 



572 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

as I bad imagined! There is a Supreme Being, there is nature, 
there is, there is — but the God I have been in the habit of 
praying to every day does not exist. That He should grant 
me nothing, well and good; but why does He torture me to 
death in this manner, and make me more unhappy and more 
dependent than a beggar? 

And what have I done? I am not a saint, it is true. I do 
not pass my life in a church, and I do not fast, but you know 
what my life has been; with the exception of the disrespect I 
show to my family, who do not deserve it, I have nothing to 
reproach myself with. Of what use is it to pray every night 
and ask pardon for being forced to say disagreeable things 
to my family? For if I have been to blame in my treatment of 
mamma, you well know it was to compel her to act. 

In a word, I am horribly stricken, and stricken with the most 
refined cruelty. 

I am certain that the God that I believed I knew, does not 
exist; it is not possible! But then? Oh, no, we must have 
a God, to Whom our good and evil actions are reported. 

Friday, August 12th. — You, perhaps, believe that I have 
decided in regard to my picture; I can do nothing! I am 
thoroughly convinced of my own incapacity! Here is more 
than a month, counting the time lost in traveling, that I have 
done nothing! I can not even imagine that I am working! I am 
disgusted, in advance, with the worthless, dry, unfeeling things 
I am sure to produce. It is odious; I can do nothing! 

Everything goes wrong. I gave up my painting and decided 
to paint Olstnitz, but she goes away in two days. Then I went 
in search of a model, which I could not find. Then I hastened 
to see Julia,; she can pose only a part of the day, Monday. 
I turned to the janitor's little girl, but she is engaged ahead. 

Then I went to see Amanda, who was working in the garden 
of her house at Issy. It did me good; although she is not 
artist enough to really encourage me, it cheered me. 

I returned, resolved to make that confounded painting. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 573 

Saturday, August i$th. — Ah, well, I did not work even two 
hours at it, and then left it! Who knows? It might, perhaps, 
have been very good. However, I decided that it was pre- 
tentious and expressed nothing. In the first place, I do not 
like my models. And then I see my canvas exhibited on the 
boulevard, just after elections. And then, it is not a feminine 
subject. But then, who knows? By applying myself, perhaps? 
There is the perhaps that drives me crazy. Julian's opinion 
I ought to consider, perhaps, but Julian was mistaken last 
year about Zilhardt; he had predicted something good, and 
the result was a horror. 

I will trust to chance, but if chance does not go according 
to my wishes — but what are my wishes? 

It is a mania, upon my word! I must have Alexis for this 
painting, and I do not know when he will return, and I have 
only eighteen days left. 

You are crazy to think of it! No, that will be time enough; 
I will leave it to chance! I will open a book at hazard, and 
if the line on which I place my finger contains an even num- 
ber of letters, I will give up the painting. 

There, it is even — but you are not ignorant that my right 
lung is affected; well then, you will undoubtedly be pleased to 
learn that the left one is equally affected. None of those 
stupid doctors have yet told me so, however. I felt it for the 
first time in the catacombs of relics at Kiew, but I thought it 
was a momentary pain caused by the dampness; since, it 
returns every day, and it is so strong to-night that I find it diffi- 
cult to breathe, and it causes me an intense pain between the 
shoulder-blade and the chest, just where the doctors strike 
their little blows. 

And the painting? 

Sunday, August 14^. — Last night I found it difficult to 
sleep, and this morning I still feel the pain in my back; each 
time that I breathe, it hurts me, and when I cough, the 
pain is still worse. 



574 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Oh, surely I am in a fine state of health! 

Now I have given up the painting. That is settled. But 
how much time I have lost! More than a month. 

As for Breslau, encouraged as she is by her honorable men- 
tion, all must go well with her; while my arms are paralyzed 
and I have no confidence in myself. 

Thursday \ August iSt/z. — Do not read the record of to-day 
if you love lively things. I passed the day working, and 
while working, addressed to myself, in petto y the most cruel 
truths. 

I have been looking over my sketches, and my progress can 
be followed step by step. Every once in a while I have said 
to myself that Breslau knew how to paint before I had begun 
to draw. But you will say to me: " Is this girl, then, the entire 
world to you?" I know not, but it is not a trifling sentiment 
that makes me fear her as a rival. 

From the very beginning, whatever the men or our compan- 
ions might say, I knew that she had talent, and you see that 
I was right. The least thought of that girl troubles me; a 
stroke of her pencil on one of my drawings strikes me to the 
heart. I feel her strength and it crushes me. She always 
drew comparisons between herself and me. To think that the 
dunces at the studio always said that she would never paint; 
" She has no idea of color, her painting does not hold 
together, all she knows is how to draw." Exactly what they 
say of me now. It should be a consolation; it is in fact the 
only one I have! 

In 1876 (February), she had already received the medal for 
drawing. She began in June, 1875, after having studied for 
two years in Switzerland. For two years I saw her struggle 
against the most discouraging failures in painting; then suc- 
cess came little by little and in 1879, by Tony's advice, she 
exhibited a picture. At this time, I had been painting six 
months. Next month it will be three years since I first began 
to paint. 



- JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 575 

The question now is, whether I am capable of doing any- 
thing as good as the picture she exhibited in 1879? Julian 
says that the one of 1879 was better than that of 1881; only, 
as they were not good friends, he did not push it to success, 
although he remained neutral. Her painting of last year was 
placed like mine in the. morgue, that is, in the exterior gallery. 

Now, this year, she has made up with Julian, and patronized 
beside by the new school, is placed in the line. A prize will 
follow as a matter of course. 



On leaving the studio, my aunt and I went driving in a cab 
on the banks of the Seine, toward the Trocadero and on the 
Avenues de Tourvilles. What a charming quarter it is, and 
one we know so little of! I feel fatigued like Breslau used to 
feel; I feel almost shriveled, like her, and I admire the^sky 
and the delicacy of tone in the distance, as she used to. Breslau 
is my constant preoccupation, and I do not give one touch 
without asking myself how she would do it, how she would 
treat the matter. It is that the subject is nothing, nothing, 
nothing! The quality of the painting is everything — unless it 
is a question of an historical composition. But, in modern 
subjects, a head or a hand is enough, if the painting is good; 
what I make is dry, cold, severe! "I will try sculpture," I 
said one day. " Yes, marble will suit you; it is cold and dry," 
said Julian. That speech made me almost faint. 

But in sculpture, we imitate the object before us; there is 
no trickery, no color, no perspective. But why do those 
people, (Tony, for instance) why do they insist that I should 
continue? Tony derives no advantage from it, neither does 
Julian, for the time has come when I shall work more at home 
than at his studio as I have given up my painting. 

I have said nothing about the departure of Olstnitz; she has 
wanted to go for such a long time and we always detained 
her. But the poor child has stood it as long as she could, she 
is terribly homesick. Just think, I said good-morning and 



576 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

good-night, and every evening reproached myself for not con- 
versing more with her, and it was the same every day. 

I had about one hundred and fifty generous impulses to 
draw nearer to her, but never went any further. I excused 
myself because of all the troubles I had to contend with. 

Finally, she has gone, poor little thing; a nature truly 
angelic, and her departure wrung my heart, but she will be 
happier at home. What grieves me more than all, is that I 
can not make amends for my coldness and indifference. I 
treated her as I treat mamma, my aunt, Dina; but it is less 
painful for my own family than it was for that sweet, calm child 
all alone in a foreign land. She left yesterday at 9 o'clock. 
I could not speak for fear of weeping, and I affected an indif- 
ferent air; but I hope she understood. 

Saturday, August 20th. — I went alone to see Falguiere, the 
sculptor; I told him I was an American and showed him some 
designs of mine, letting him understand my desire to work. 
He found one of them very good, very good; all the others 
good. He sent me to a studio where he gives lessons and 
said that if I could not make arrangements there, he would 
give me instruction either at his house or my own. That was 
very kind of him, but for a teacher, I have Saint-Marceaux 
whom I adore, and I shall content myself with the studio. 

Biarritz, Friday, September 16th. — Having made our fare- 
wells, we left on Thursday morning. We were to pass the 
night at Bayonne, but we preferred Bordeaux, where Sarah 
was to appear that evening. We, therefore, took two stalls in 
the balcony for 50 francs, and I saw " La Dame aux Came- 
lias" Unfortunately, I was very tired; I had heard so much 
of this woman that I can not describe my impressions. Before 
seeing her, it seemed to me that she would do nothing like 
anybody else, so it was a surprise to see her walk, talk, and sit 
down. I have seen her but four times — once, when I was 
small, in "The Sphinx;" then, lately, in "The Sphinx " again, 
and in " U Etrangh'e." The most extraordinary attention was 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 577 

paid to her slightest movement. I think she is altogether 
charming. 

Biarritz is certainly very pretty. The sea has been enchant- 
ing all day. The gray tints were beautiful. 

Saturday, September 17th. — Up to the present time, I have 
seen none of that fashion and elegance I expected to see at 
Biarritz. As to the shore, from an artistic point of view, it is 
disagreeable and ugly. 

Oh, Bay of Nice! Oh, Gulf of Naples! even the small 
watering-places around Nice — Eses, Beaulieu, etc. Here we 
are annoyed by piles of small rocks, thrown down pell-mell, 
as if placed there on purpose for decoration. The beach is 
small; at the right, the light-house; at the left, a cliff; and 
beyond, two ramparts, enormous desert shores. 

The site is varied without being picturesque. There is not 
a house, really on the sea-shore; we are climbing and descend- 
ing all the time. I explored the surroundings for two hours 
in a carriage, and did not find the shadow of any subject for 
a picture; not a fisherman, not a sail, nothing but fir trees, 
villas, and long roads. It were better to go to Spain. I 
will see the galleries, make a few copies, and perhaps I may 
find a subject for a painting; at all events, I can make studies. 
Yes; I will spend a month or six weeks there almost without 
luggage, unknown and quiet. 

Sunday, September i8t/i. — I have some light dresses of cam- 
bric or white woolen without trimming; but made charmingly, 
very fresh, and smart; pretty canvas shoes, bought here; 
and white, youthful-looking hats — hats for happy women. 
This makes, altogether, an outfit which attracts much atten- 
tion. 

I am in a desperate state of mind. Mamma and my aunt 
are dull and anything but cheerful; in fact, it is anything but 
a pleasure trip to a fashionable sea-side resort. 

However, I can not resign myself to remain shut up in 
Paris, for I shall never go into the very best society. The 
37 



578 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

silence and solitude of the studio is still the place where I find 
the most happiness. 

Tuesday », September 27M. — Yesterday, at Bayonne, with the 
family; to-day, at Fontarabia, with the family, also; I never go 
out without them. I wanted to take a ride, but my riding-habit 
does not fit me, and then, it would bore me to ride with a 
Russian whom I do not know very well and who is tiresome. 

Fontarabia is charming, and, moreover, Biarritz was so ordi- 
nary and tiresome in its common-place beauty, that we are 
happy to leave it. Immediately, after my arrival here, I found 
on the beach some beggar children who would make an inter- 
esting painting; only I want to see Spain first, and if there I 
do not meet with anything better, I shall return by way of 
Fontarabia. 

L gambled (there was a roulette table) ; but after losing 40 
francs, I made sketches. It was an out-of-the-way corner. I 
hope nobody saw me play. Oh, those three hours in the car- 
riage, listening to Madame R — ! That lady tells silly stories 
that have not even the charm of society small-talk. Ah! 
how have I offended heaven that I must endure this? 

Why can I not eat the wretchedly cooked food at the hotel, 
which, however, princes of the blood endure? Why can I not 
tolerate the intellectual poverty which surrounds me? For, 
doubtless, I have but my deserts, and then, if indeed I were so 
superior, I should be able — 

Oh, the curse of the common-place! 

Oh, dreams of my youth! Oh, divine hope! Oh, if there 
be a God, He forsakes me! I am serene only at Paris. Trav- 
eling, people see each other continually, and my family rasps 
me. It is not that my elderly female relatives are vulgar, or 
their bearing out of the way. When no strangers are present 
they do very well, and then they are my family; but, so soon 
as there are any strangers present, mamma poses and becomes 
affected in her pronunciation in a way that is sure to exas- 
perate me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 579 

It is somewhat my fault. I always reproached them with 
not knowing how to gain an entrance into the highest society, 
and I sometimes said disagreeable things to prod them on to 
do something. It could not fail to give them this pitiful atti- 
tude. I complain of my family, constantly, but I love them. 
I am just. 

Madrid, Saturday, October 2d. — You imagine you have been 
dreaming after leaving that bloody infamy, a bull-fighU Abom- 
inable slaughter of sorry horses and bulls, in which men have 
the appearance of incurring no danger, and play an ignoble 
part. Besides, the only moment interesting for me, was, 
when the men were sprawling on the ground and one of them 
was tossed by the bull. It was a miracle he escaped; so he 
had an ovation. 

They throw into the arena cigars, and hats that are thrown 
back very adroitly; and handkerchiefs are waved, and uncouth 
howls are uttered. 

It is a cruel sport, but is it amusing? Well, no! it is neither 
soul-stirring, nor interesting, it is horrible and ignoble. It is 
a fraudulently furious beast that they goad with many-colored 
mantles, and in whose body they plant a kind of dart. Blood 
flows; the more the animal shakes himself, the more he jumps, 
and so much the more he wounds himself. Poor horses with 
bandaged eyes are put in front of him, and he rips them up 
with his horns. The intestines protrude; nevertheless, the 
horse gets up, and to his last gasp obeys the man who often 
falls with him, but is hardly ever hurt. 

This blood is black on the sand, and scarlet on the back 
of the bull. When we arrived, there was a black bull in 
the arena, and he looked as if he were striped with scarlet. 
At first I thought him adorned with ribbons, for the lances 
planted in his sides were streaming with blood. And after 
the horses are dead, the fight continues; a dozen Spanish 
idiots goad and cripple with stabs the bull that bounds and 
pursues them; but it is always the mantle that he runs against. 



580 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And when wounded, bleeding, bellowing in distress, he stops 
and turns aside his head, this red mantle is still "presented to 
him, and the men kick him. Then the public applauds, the 
poor beast falls on his knees, and lies down to die in the 
unaggressive pose of a cow resting in a meadow. He is 
killed by a stroke on the neck. The music strikes up, and 
then come ribbon-bedecked horses harnessed to a sort of 
butcher's frame, to which the dead bull is fastened, and 
dragged away on the gallop. And then it begins again. 
There are three men on horseback, more horses disemboweled, 
and then the absurd and bloody goading of the toreadors. 

And when a dozen or more horses, and five or six bulls 
have been killed, high society leaves to take a turn on the 
Buen Retiro which is one of the handsomest promenades in 
the world, and which I prefer to the Bois, to say nothing of 
London, Vienna, or Rome. But no, Rome has a charm so 
great that nothing can be compared to it. 

The king, the queen, and the infantas were present at the 
fight. There were more than 14,000 spectators, and it is the 
same way every Sunday, and you must see the faces of all these 
sinister boobies to believe that they can cultivate a passion for 
such horrors, if indeed they were real horrors! But think of 
those inoffensive hacks and those bulls which are only furious 
when excited, wounded, tortured. 

The queen, who is an Austrian, can not enjoy herself. The 
king has the appearance of a Parisian Englishman. The 
youngest of the infantas is the only pretty one. Queen 
Isabella has told me that I resemble her; I am flattered, for 
she is really pretty. 

We started from Biarritz Tuesday morning, and arrived that 
evening at Burgos. The Pyrenees impressed me by their 
majestic beauty; I am glad to escape from the pasteboard 
rocks of Biarritz. 

We traveled with a large gentleman who spoke no French; 
none of us spoke Spanish, nevertheless he explained an illus- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 581 

trated paper to me, and presented me flowers at a stopping 
place. Besides, there was a young man who was going to 
Lisbon, and who was very anxious to be of use to us — a kind 
of Gibraltar Englishman. 

If you think that traveling with my mother and my aunt is 
a pleasure, you are beautifully mistaken. However, perhaps 
they should not be blamed for their behavior, for they have 
neither my youth, nor my curiosity. Well, since it is past, I 
will speak no more of their innocent worryings, the more so, 
as they are such meddlers that I shall have a thousand occa- 
sions to speak of it again. I wish you could see their unhappy 
looks, and hear their absurd questions. They pretend to 
believe themselves in a country never before visited! " And 
the guide said that it was cold in Burgos. That was a real 
calamity, and we should have brought pelisses. What a 
country it is! And what is there to see? The cathedral? 
But only the English go there." And the worst is, that every- 
thing is addressed to me in the third person, or, indeed, 
nothing is said to me; but, while talking of something else, 
what a manner they have! And if I protest, they say I am 
seeking a quarrel; and, nevertheless, it was not my idea. It 
was they who proposed to come to Spain. 

Then Burgos — ah! they are insupportable! When it is not 
dolorous resignation and complaints in the third person, there 
is such a complete indifference that it is absolutely astonish- 
ing. 

All the same I went to the cathedral. Is it possible to 
describe it — this mass of ornamentation, of brilliantly-colored 
gildings, of floral festoons, and trifles that make a magnificent 
whole? Ah! the twilight of the chapels! the massive iron 
gratings! It is truly a wonder. And over all there is the odor 
of religious romanticism. These churches invite rendezvous. 
One takes holy water, and looks for some one to make eyes at. 
It is the same way with that comparatively modest convent of 
Cartuja. We went there toward evening, which still further 



582 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

accentuates the poetry of Spanish churches. At the cathedral 
they exhibit that celebrated Magdalen of Leonardo da Vinci(?) 
Horrors! I have to acknowledge that I find it ugly, and that 
it is meaningless to me; the same as the Raphaels for that 
matter. 

Finally, yesterday morning, we arrived at Madrid. This 
morning we went to the gallery. Ah, the Louvre is indeed 
pale beside it. There are pictures of Rubens, Philippe de 
Champagne — I can not recall them all — and even Van Dyck, 
and the Italians. Nothing is comparable to Velasquez — but I 
am still too dazzled to criticise. And Ribera? Heavens! but 
these are the true naturalists! Can one see anything truer to 
nature, more admirably, more divinely, more absolutely true? 
Ah, how I am moved, and how unhappy I am at seeing such 
things! And people dare to speak of the pale colors of 
Raphael, and the paltry paintings of the French school! 

Coloring! To feel color and not produce it, that is impos- 
sible! Soria came before dinner with his friend, Monsieur 
Pollack (director of the railroads), and his son, who is a 
painter. He has studied painting with Julian. 

I am going to the gallery alone to-morrow. It is incredible 
what a shock an idiotic remark can give me when I am look- 
ing at these masterpieces. It is as painful as the stab of a 
knife, and if I take offense, it appears silly. There is some- 
thing which makes me ashamed, and I scarcely know how to 
explain it. I do not wish to be seen admiring anything; besides, 
I am ashamed to be surprised into the manifestation of any 
feeling. I can not explain this clearly. 

It seems to me that you can not talk seriously of something 
that has moved you, except to someone with whom you are 
in perfect sympathy. I talk well with — with Julian, who is 
not a blockhead, but there is always a grain of exaggeration, 
so that enthusiasm may have a mocking side, so to speak, 
which puts you beyond the reach of raillery, however slight. 
But to receive a profound impression and tell it simply, seri- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 583 

ously, as it has been felt — I do not think that I could, unless to 
one whom I loved entirely. And if I could tell it to an 
indifferent person, that would create immediately an invisible 
lien, and one which might afterward cause much embarrass- 
ment; we would appear to have committed an evil action 
together. 

Therefore, in the exchange of ideas, we must employ the 
Parisian manner, affecting to see things a little from the pro- 
fessional point of view, so as not to appear too poetic, and 
at the same time talking from the artistic point of view. 

Tuesday, October \th. — But wait, let us finish yesterday. 
Then from the Buen Retiro we went to a cafe to hear and 
see some gypsy songs and dances. 

It is altogether strange; a guitar is strummed by a man and 
a dozen women clap their hands in rhythm, then, suddenly, one 
of them begins to utter some notes, broken, chromatic songs; 
it is impossible to describe this. It is altogether Arabian. 
But at the end of an hour you have enough of it. These 
women are in gowns, with fichus over their shoulders and 
flowers in their hair; and these muslin, or even linen, dresses 
prevent a view of those most characteristic movements of the 
hips. These Spanish women, if net pretty, are all interesting 
subjects for pictures. Look at their tints, their eyes. Ah! 
seeing them you comprehend Spanish painting; it is superb! 
With paint plentifully spread on, it is free, it is easy, it has 
a color!! 

At 9 o'clock this morning, I was at the gallery with Velas- 
quez; in comparison with his pictures, the work of every 
other artist is dry and pale, except Ribera, who, nevertheless, 
is not his equal. In the " Portrait of an Unknown Sculptor," 
there is a hand which gave me a clue as to where Carolus 
Duran learned how to paint as he does; it is well known 
that it is his ambition to become a second edition of Velasquez. 

We have bought a Spanish guitar and mandolin. If one 
has not seen Spain, one can not imagine what it is. And they 



584 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKtRTSEFF. 

say that Madrid is less characteristically Spanish than what 
I have yet to see — Toledo, Grenada, and Seville. At all 
events, I am delighted to be here. I am burning to copy that 
hand, to study at the gallery, then to paint a picture and stay 
here two months, if necessary. 

Thursday, October 6th.— I have copied the hand of Velasquez. 
I was dressed modestly in black, with a mantilla like all the 
women here; but people came to look at me — one man, in 
particular. It seems that in Madrid the men are worse than 
they are in Italy, with their promenades under the windows, 
and their guitars; they follow you everywhere, and insist on 
talking to you. There are notes exchanged in the churches, 
and the young girls have thus five or six sighing after them. 
The men are extremely gallant toward the women without 
any element of insult, for the demi-monde of France does 
not exist; such women are very much despised; but in the 
street the Spaniards tell you very plainly that they adore you; 
they ask permission to accompany you, with all due respect, 
knowing that you are a lady. 

And you see men throw down their mantles that you may 
walk on them. For my part, I find this delightful. When 
I start out simply, but stylishly, dressed, they stop and look at 
me, and I feel born again, and it is a new, fabulous existence, 
tinted with the chivalry of the Middle Ages. 

Sunday, October gth. — Well, there is nothing new. Pollack 
and Escobar have come every day. Mamma started for 
Russia to-day; their presence saved us many tears. I was 
very sad all day, but nevertheless it could not be avoided; it 
was necessary for her to go, since my father wished to see her 
in regard to business matters, and so she started! 

The evening was passed in talking art with Pollack, and 
now that I am alone, I imagine dark things; if mother should 
die without our seeing each other again. 

Oh, if that terrible thing should happen, it would be a 
punishment for my imbecile and unfilial revolts! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 585 

I should pass my life weeping, because I was not able to 
redeem my hardness. Oh, I should go mad! Imagine it! to 
feel myself at fault, and never, never be able to expiate my 
follies. 

She would die believing that I did not love her, that it 
would make no difference to me, that I would soon be con- 
soled, perhaps, even, that I was glad of it. 

I fortify myself against misfortunes, but I can not imagine 
the effect of this upon me. Rather anything in the world 
than this. To become blind, or paralyzed, would be very hard; 
but to lose mamma under such circumstances, it would seem 
to me that I had killed her. 

Monday, October io//z. — As I was working in the gallery, 
two men came up, tolerably advanced in age, and not very 
handsome. They asked if I were not Mademoiselle Bash- 
kirtseff. I answered that I was, and they seemed delighted. 
Monsieur Soldatenkoff is a millionaire from Moscow who 
travels a great deal, and adores art and artists. Afterward 
Pollack told us that Madrazo, the son of the superintendent 
of the gallery, and a painter himself, greatly liked my copy, 
and asked to be presented to me. Old Soldatenkoff asked me 
if I would sell the picture, and I was stupid enough to say no. 

As to painting, I am on the road to learning a great deal. I 
see what I did not see before; my eyes are opening. I rise on 
tip-toe and do not breathe, so to speak, for fear of breaking 
the enchantment, for it is a veritable enchantment. I 
hope at last to realize my dreams. I think I understand 
what I must do; all my energies are directed toward 
one great object; a good piece of painting — not of cabi- 
net work, but of flesh and things that speak, and when I can 
do that, I shall be an artist, and be able to do wonderful 
things. For everything, everything is in the execution! 
What is " Vulcan's Forge " by Velasquez, or his " Spinners?" 
Take away that marvelous execution from these pictures, 
and they would be no better than those of any unknown 



586 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

artist. I know that many people will not agree with me; first 
of all, the imbeciles who pose as adorers of sentiment. But 
hold, sentiment is the poetry of execution, the enchantment of 
the brush. We do not realize how true that is! Do you like the 
primitive forms, thin and ingenuous, and glossy in execution? 
They are curious and interesting, but it is impossible to admire 
them. Do you like Raphael's sublime cardboard virgins? I 
shall appear callous, but I assure you that they do not move 
me. They contain a sentiment and a nobility that I respect, but 
can not admire. But there are other pictures of Raphael like 
the " School of Athens," for instance, which are incomparable, 
particularly when engraved or photographed. They contain a 
sentiment, an idea, a breath of true genius. Remark that I 
am equally opposed to the ignoble masses of flesh by Rubens, 
and the magnificent, but unintellectual, flesh of Titian. Both 
mind and body are needed. Like Velasquez, one must exe- 
cute like a poet, and think like a man of genius. 

Tuesday, October nth. — I dreamed that the trouble In my 
right lung was explained to me; in certain parts the air does 
not penetrate, which makes me raise — but it is too disgusting 
to describe, it is enough that my lung is affected. Oh! I 
know it, for some time I have felt a sort of uneasiness, a slight 
indefinable weakness. I am no longer as I was. I do not feel 
as others do; a sort of enervating vapor envelopes me. I 
speak figuratively, of course. It seems as if I had something 
foreign in the chest, and I have — but why these absurdities? 
I shall know all about it soon enough. 

Wednesday, October 12th. — That Paris! I have always hated 
the city itself; always, always! How much more sympathetic 
is Madrid, in spite of its irregular streets and poverty-stricken 
appearance, in comparison with Paris. Look at Paris; its ele- 
gance wearies, its shops, its cocottes, its new houses; it is terri- 
bly anti-artistic. Oh, Rome! (and Madrid resembles it a 
little.) Oh, the South! I am of the South; I, born in the 
Ukraine and raised at Nice. I adore the South. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 587 

I have finished my copy of " Vulcan," by Velasquez, and, to 
believe the public, it ought to be good. The poor devils of 
artists who make copies of celebrated pictures to sell, came 
several times a day to see me at work, and the gamins of the 
school of fine arts, and the foreigners, of whom several would 
talk together in English, French, or Spanish, saying the most 
flattering things about me. 

And when I go away they climb up on the ladder to look at 
my big brushes and see how it is painted; in a word, my poor 
children, it is enough to puff me up with pride were I less 
ambitious. 

Friday, October 14th.— We started for Toledo yesterday at 7 
in the morning. I have heard it talked of so much that I 
imagined something marvelous. In spite of good sense, I 
obstinately pictured it to myself as something in the style of 
the Renaissance and the Middle Ages, with wonderful speci- 
mens of architecture, sculptured doors (blackened by time), 
divinely wrought balconies, etc. I well knew it was some- 
thing different; but the picture was graven on my imagi- 
nation and spoiled Toledo for me, when I perceived that 
Moorish city with its inevitable thinness of walls and doors 
battered, or having that appearance. Toledo is all on a height, 
like a citadel, and when one looks at the country and the Tagus 
from the summit, it resembles certain improbable backgrounds 
of Leonardo de Vinci, or even of Velasquez. Those almost 
mathematical mountains of bluish green, seen through a win- 
dow beside which is the lady, or the cavalier, in prune-colored 
velvet, with small and beautiful hands. As to Toledo itself, it 
is a labyrinth of little, irregular, narrow streets, where the sun 
does not penetrate, where the inhabitants have the appearance 
of camping out, so little are the houses like ordinary ones. 
It is a mummy, a Pompeii preserved entire but seeming 
ready to crumble into dust from old age; the ground is 
parched, and the high walls are burned by the sun. There 
are marvelously picturesque courts, and mosques turned into 



588 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

churches and daubed with whitewash. What is seen where 
the whitewash has crumbled off is very curious — patterns and 
arabesques with their colors still bright, ceilings of blackened 
wood with beams joining curiously, high overhead. The cathe- 
dral is as fine as that of Burgos, and there is a profusion of 
ornamentation. The doors are marvels, and exquisite* is the 
cloister with its court full of laurel and rose-bushes, which 
invade the gallery and twine around the pillars and the 
grave-faced statues! And when the sun shines upon all this, 
it is incomparably poetic. 

Besides, the Spanish churches are something that can not 
be imagined. Ragged guides, velvet-robed sacristans, stran- 
gers, and dogs promenade, pray, and bark there, and it has a 
strange charm. Coming out of a chapel, it seems as if one 
ought to meet suddenly, behind a pillar somewhere, the idol of 
one's soul. 

It is inconceivable that a country so near the center of 
European corruption should be still so new, so virgin, so wild! 

They say that Toledo is a very uncomfortable city to stay 
in. I do not know; there are so many things to see, and I 
stayed only a few hours. I shall return to paint certain very 
black streets, and those little columns, pilasters, ceilings, old 
doors with large Spanish and Moorish nails, jewels, marvels! 
But it was hot and I did not see clearly. 

It is picturesque; everything is a picture, one does not even 
have to choose, everything is strange and interesting, but 
it has not the sympathies of my heart. If I had had more 
time it might have been different. 

But I do not fancy this mixture of Goths and Arabs and 
Spaniards. The coro (choir) of the cathedral is truly a 
marvel; for example, the stalls have historic bas reliefs in 
wood, carved with such detail and of such finish, that one is 
seized with admiration. Ah! 1 have told you the cathedral 
is a prodigy of elegance, of richness, and above all of light- 
ness; it seems as if those slender columns, those carvings, and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 589 

those vaults could not resist time; one fears lest such treasures 
should fall into ruin. It is so beautiful, one feels almost a 
personal apprehension; but for four or five centuries has this 
prodigy of patience been standing immutable and admirable. 
I tell you the thought that one carries away is: If it only 
lasts! And there is a terror lest it should be ruined, deteri- 
orated, worn out. I wish no one had a right to touch this 
creation with a finger, and even people who walk there are 
guilty, for it seems to me that they contribute to the very slow 
but inevitable destruction of the edifice. I well know that for 
centuries still it will stand, but — One hates to leave the great 
walls pierced with Arab windows, parched in the sun, and the 
mosques with their superb rows of pillars and their arabesque 
carvings. Bah! Go to Rome and see the sun set behind the 
dome and all these prodigious gew-gaws, all these elegancies 
of chiseled stones, of Gothic and Arab doors, all these frail 
and brittle marvels of a proud and disturbing character, all 
these will fall like scales and seem to you puerile ornaments. 

I look at the photographs of Toledo. It seems to me that 
I have been mistaken. I have not observed things correctly. 

Saturday, October i$th. — I have passed the day at the Escu- 
rial with my aunt whom it bored, and who, with a placid face, 
tried to trick me. If I had not heard the guide talking she 
would have swindled me out of the burial vaults in order that 
I should not become too weary. " And then the coffins — it is 
frightful!" What a trial it is to be obliged to take this journey 
in this manner! I saw, as in a dream, that magnificent block 
of granite. Sombre, sad, sublime! As forme, I find it superb; 
that majestic sadness is fascinating. The palace follows the 
form of the gridiron of St. Lawrence (consult the guides), 
which gives it a little the air of a barracks; but it rises above 
fields that are burnt, sombre, and storm-tossed like a sea, and 
produces a profound impression with its granite walls as thick 
as a Parisian house, its cloisters, its columns, its galleries, 
terraces, courts, and ponds of green water. It is cold, they 



590 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

say; it is sad, yes; but it is restful after the irritating visions of 
Toledo. We visited the royal apartments covered with very ugly 
tapestry, wrought in colors that shout at you. However, the 
king's study is a gem; there are wooden doors incrusted with 
ornaments of polished steel and pure gold; then a parlor ora- 
tory in embroidered silk is ravishing. What a contrast to the 
chamber of Philip II.! This tyrant dwelt in a miserable bare 
ceil opening into a sort of low chapel, all in marble, which 
itself opened into the church. From his bed he saw the altar 
and could hear mass. For my part, I can not remember all 
the chambers, staircases, and cloisters that they took us 
through; the place is so large! And the long galleries and 
immense windows closed by box-like wooden shutters, with 
massive and slightly ornamented doors! 

The church is admirable in its simplicity; its grand, plain 
vaults produce an altogether imposing effect. The royal tomb 
and the stairs, which lead to it, all in various colored marbles, 
are exceedingly rich. 

The sarcophagi are of Toledo marble with ornaments of 
hammered copper. They are splendid. Only five places are 
left. Mercedes, whose fate was so touching, waits, in a little 
lateral chapel, for the reconstruction of the tomb for infantas, 
and queens without children. 

The coro is of unsculptured wood, but in the middle there 
is a marvelous lectern, with books as large as I am. 

The library, Oh! There are manuscripts that I admired for 
a long time, although I did not know much about them. 

And you would have me prefer trivial ornamentation to that 
sombre majesty! What character, what sobriety, and how 
far we are from the indescribable mass of ornaments and the 
brittle fretwork of Toledo! 

Then they took us through a park where the king shoots 
rabbits, and showed us the pavilion, built in 1781, I think; a 
gem. The staircases and the courts are in colored marble, 
and there are a quantity of little salons upholstered with 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 591 

pictures, even with pretty pictures, or with pale silk deliciously 
faded, with ravishing embroidery, blue and rose-colored 
flowers; green, harmoniously faded, shows finely on white 
mellowed to an incomparable ivory. 

Those little salons in satin of a lustreless white or pale blue, 
or old gold, with ceilings deliciously painted or incrusted, are 
enough to drive one wild. 

There is a cabinet adorned with pictures embroidered on 
tapestry; a few feet off you would think them paintings; and 
there are marvelous ivory carvings and bisque figures. 

Sunday, October i6t/i. — One of the most curious things here 
is the Rastro, a street occupied by every kind of booth like 
the fairs in Russian villages, where everything can be found. 
And what a life and animation and a buzzing there are under 
this burning sun. It is wonderful! Infinitely rich bric-a-brac 
is lodged in dirty houses, back shops, and legendary staircases. 
There are masses of fabrics, tapestries, and embroidery enough 
to drive one crazy with longing to possess them. 

And the wretched inhabitants seem absolutely reckless; they 
drive nails through beautiful fabrics on the walls to hang up 
old frames; they walk on embroideries spread out on the 
floor, which is littered with old furniture, frames, statuary, 
shrines, silverware, and old rusty nails! I bought a salmon- 
red silk curtain, covered with embroidery, for which they asked 
me 700 francs and took 150; and a linen skirt embroidered 
with pale flowers of a pretty tint, that they gave me for 5 
francs after asking 20. 

It is unfortunate not to have 100,000 francs to spend; one 
could furnish a studio; why, with only 100,000 francs what 
could not be bought? 

Escobar came to take us to the bull-fight. We were in a 
box w T ith Mademoiselle Martinez, her father, two others, and 
Escobar, I wished to return for a second impression. Eight 
bulls were announced and it is, I believe, the last Sunday. In 
short, a brilliant performance. The king, the queen, and the 



592 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

infantas were present. There were music, sun, crazy clamor, 
stamping, whistling, handkerchiefs waved, hats thrown. It 
was a unique spectacle of an enthralling grandeur and like 
nothing else. I began to enter into the spirit of the thing 
and was interested in the performance. I went there reluc- 
tantly, with a shiver of disgust; nevertheless, I kept a good 
countenance in face of that butchery and refined cruelty. It 
is very beautiful provided one looks without thinking. Never- 
theless, one ends by getting interested, and through pride 
keeps a brave face before these ignominies. I looked all the 
time. One leaves drunk with blood; for a small consideration 
one would stick steel darts in everybody's neck. 

I cut my melon at the table, as if I were planting a ban- 
derilla, and my meat seemed to come palpitating from under 
the torn hide of the bull. Oh, it makes you tremble and your 
head heavy! It is a school of assassins. Now, doubtless, 
the toreadors are handsome and graceful; their movements 
are fine and dignified, notwithstanding their extreme supple- 
ness. 

This duel of man against an immense brute seems magnifi- 
cent; but is it indeed a duel, when it is always known which 
will succumb? I acknowledge that there is something fine 
and exciting in the scene, when the matador appears in the 
arena, his brilliant costume displaying his fine form to the 
best advantage, and makes his three characteristic salutes (he 
raises his hand three times as high above his head as he can, 
and then brings it down with a broad sweep), when, calm 
and cool, he places himself, with his mantle and sword, 
directly in front of the animal. This is the best part of the 
show. He causes scarcely any bloodshed. Yes, I acknowl- 
edge it; this part is astonishing; in fact, the Spaniards them- 
selves do not care for the horse part. Then I am reconciled 
to this savage pleasure? I do not say that, but it has a 
side which is very picturesque, almost grand. The amphi- 
theatre, with the 14,000 or 15,000 spectators, is like a 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 593 

vision of the antiquity I so love. And then, again, there is 
the bloody, horrible, ignoble side. If the men were less 
adroit, if they oftener received severe wounds, I should 
not complain; but it is their cowardice which revolts me; 
nevertheless, they say it requires the courage of a lion — well, 
no, they are too adroit, and too surely avoid the foreseen 
and provoked attacks of the terrible, but artless, brute. The 
real danger is to the banderilleros, for the man runs to encounter 
the bull, and at the moment the latter tries to gore, dodges 
him, while planting his banderillas between the shoulders. 
It requires exceptional courage and skill. 

Monday, October ijt/i. — And yet, there are people who are 
happy, while I, who have everything to make me so, am not! 

I have money enough to come, go, paint, travel — / do as I 
please; you know the rest. I would rather lack money, and 
not do as I please, than be with people who enrage me 
with their obstinacy, for my good. 

When people are convinced that they are doing right, they 
can not be moved. My family are convinced. If they had 
not this nerve-jarring, rasping, murdering fault of persecuting 
me from love, I might, perhaps, pardon them for being neither 
artistic nor agreeable; and yet, there are happy people! But 
look at this trip with my aunt! It is enough to make me 
start for Paris to-morrow. 

Friday, October igt/i. — There is no gainsaying it; I cough at 
such a rate that it must injure everything inside of me; and, 
with that, I grow thin, or rather — yes, I grow thin. When I 
stretch out my arm it has an attenuated look, instead of its 
former roundness. It is still pretty, however, and I do not 
complain yet. At present it is the interesting period; one 
becomes slender without emaciation, and there is a touch of 
languor, which is becoming; but, if I continue, in a year I 
shall turn out a skeleton. 

Tuesday, October 20th. — This morning I passed two hours 
at Cordova, just time for a glance at a city that is delightful 

38 



594 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

in its way. I adore cities like that; there were Roman remains 
which delighted me, and the mosque was a veritable marvel. 

One would like to stay a month at Cordova. But for that 
you must not travel with an aunt who manages to enrage you 
ten times in ten minutes, and ends by becoming angry herself. 
Sometimes it is, " There is nothing to see here, and the guide 
took us here only to earn his fee and to make us lose the 
train." Then it is a carriage which is necessary to go to 
the mosque! " At Cordova at 8 o'clock in the morning! 
why, we shall catch our death of cold, and I, at my last gasp, 
cannot walk; the chilly air is terribly unhealthy/' Sweet soci- 
ety, adorable company, for an artistic journey through Spain! 
As for me, I pray God continually that He will counteract 
this,, for it is exasperating to see everything ruined this way. 
All the same I have no luck; it is enough to make one weep. 

I take care of myself and love comfort and am very fond of 
good eating; but when it comes to annoying me with this, the 
whole livelong time, I would rather be thrown out in the street! 

Oh, Lord, but these people tire me! When little Pollack 
was around, at least I escaped these bothers to a certain 
extent. Besides, my aunt is charmed when some one is with 
us, for she well knows that she enrages me, poor woman! 

Saturday, October 2id. — Behold us in this much-vaunted 
Seville! On the whole I am losing much time here. I have 
seen the gallery — a single room full of Murillos. I should 
have preferred something else, there is nothing but virgins 
and saints. I, who am a barbarian, presumptuous and coarse, 
have not yet seen a virgin such as I imagine she should be. 
The virgins of Raphael are beautiful in photographs. I shall 
give you my precious opinion when I have seen them again. 
Murillo does not appeal to me very strongly, I confess, with 
his red-cheeked, round-faced virgins. To be sure, there is 
the one in the Louvre so much copied; it has the most feel- 
ing of any Murillo I have ever seen; it might even be called 
divine, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 595 

And the cigar and cigarette factories! The odor! If it 
were only nothing but tobacco! There is a jumble of women 
with bare arms and necks, girls, and children. For the most 
part these squirming beings are pretty, and it is a curious 
sight. Spanish women have a grace which other women 
have not. Venders of coffee and cigarette-rollers walk like 
queens; and withal they have a suppleness, an incomparable 
grace, and necks set in such a manner! round arms with pure 
outlines, and smooth as marble. 

There was one woman in particular who rose to procure 
some more leaves of tobacco; she had the carriage of a queen, 
the suppleness of a cat, a divine grace, with a superb head, a 
coloring dazzling as a carnation, such arms, such eyes, such a 
smile — great heavens! but she was beautiful; and there are 
many who have wonderful style about them. 

The little girls are all droll and charming. There are some 
homely women, but only a few, and even the homely ones 
have some redeeming feature. 

Wednesday, October 25///. — Well, let us hope time will set 
things right. My brain is in a maze. 

I have seen the cathedral, which is one of the most beautiful 
in the world, in my opinion, and one of the largest. We saw 
the Alcazar with its delicious gardens, the bath of the sultanas, 
and then we took a walk in the streets; I invent nothing when 
I say that we were the only women in hats; so it is to our hats 
that I attribute the astonishment of the passers-by. 

I was not becomingly dressed, or there might have been 
other reasons for looking at me; but I wore a skirt of gray 
linen, a black, close-fitting jacket, and a black traveling hat. 
But foreigners are looked at here as if they were learned 
monkeys; people stop, call after them, and make invidious 
remarks. 

I was hooted at by the children, but the grown-up ones told 
me I was pretty and salada (salt); it is, as you know, very chic 
to be salada. 



596 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Seville is all white, all white; the streets are narrow; in most 
of them carriages can not go, and with all this it is not so 
picturesque as might be wished. Ah, Toledo! I see my bar- 
barity now. 

Toledo is a marvel; Seville, with its low, whitewashed houses, 
is a little bourgeoise in character. It has, indeed, its vulgar 
quarter — but in every country in the world the low quarters 
are interesting. What there is, is in such a harmony and rich- 
ness of tone that one would wish to paint everything. 

I am much exasperated at not speaking Spanish; it is a 
frightful handicap, above all in painting and making studies. 

These women and half-wild children, clothed in picturesque 
rags, are superb subjects to paint. It is ravishing, notwith- 
standing the crudity of the white houses. But it rains con- 
stantly and I am en famille. 

I understand that one may be happy living en famille, and I 
should be unhappy alone. One may go shopping en famille, 
go to the Bois en famille, sometimes to the theatre; one may 
be sick en famille, in fact do everything that pertains to family 
life — but to travel en famille!!! Would I experience any 
pleasure in waltzing with my aunt? Well, it is the same thing. 
It is mortally wearisome and even a little ridiculous. 

Yesterday I made a study of a beggar in four or five hours. 
A life-size head. It is necessary, from time to time, to try vary 
rapid sketches to limber the hand. 

I seem to be in exile; the days are so long under this gray 
sky, and as I can sleep but little on account of the mosquitoes, 
I feel weak and can not work. 

I imagined I should find a mass of adventures at Seville, but 
I am so bored that I stay shut up at the hotel, and it rains. 

No love, no poetry, not even youth — nothing! It is true 
that there is nothing in my life at Seville. It seems to me that 
I am buried, as I was in Russia last summer. All these mar- 
vels! For what? And painting? Here are five months that 
I have not been in the studio; and of these five months, with 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 597 

all my travels, I have lost three. I, who have so much need 
of work! Breslau's mention has awakened in me a world of 
thoughts, or, rather, has brought near to me, has made possi- 
ble, has translated into actual life, this dream of a medal at 
the Salon, which appeared so distant that I thought of it in 
my day dreams, as I dreamed of having the cross of the 
Legion of Honor, or of being Queen of Spain. When Ville- 
vieille came to announce to me the probability that Breslau 
would receive a mention, she appeared to think that that 
made me — In short, others, by admitting that I could dare to 
think of a recompense for myself, have given me the audacity 
to think of it, or, rather, to say to myself, that since others 
think that I dream of it, it must be that it is possible — in fact, 
here are five months that I have been dreaming of it. 

I seem to ramble, yet everything dovetails together. The 
study of Lorenzo's house may work up into a picture. 

Thursday, October 26th. — Oh, happiness! I have left that 
frightful Seville! 

I say the more "frightful," because I have been at Granada 
since yesterday evening; have been on the go since morning, 
and have already seen the inevitable cathedral, the Generaliffe, 
and a part of the vaults of the Bohemians. I am full of enthu- 
siasm. At Biarritz and at Seville my wings were clipped; 
everything seemed at an end — dead. During the three hours 
I passed at Cordova, I had the impression of an artistic city, 
that is to say, I could have worked there with entire delight. 
As to Granada, there is but one grief, and that is not to be 
able to stay six months — a year. One does not know which 
way to go, there are so many things to do and see — streets, 
silhouettes, views. It makes me long to be a landscape painter. 
But then, those strange and interesting types appear, such 
striking, warm, and harmonious colors! 

But the most curious thing I have seen is the prison of 
Granada, the prison where the convicts work. I do not know 
how the fancy came to me to go there, and certainly I do not 



598 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

regret it, although one leaves the place with a pressure 
through the temples, as after a bull-fight. The commander 
of the prison at once acceded to the desire of the noble 
strangers, and they showed us everything. A guard walked 
in front, and we were flanked by a corporal's guard of six, 
chosen from the bravest criminals, armed with sticks, and 
detailed for the service. I can not describe the impression 
caused by this troop of men, standing up and taking off their 
hats with a rapidity that resembled fear, before the gold 
braid and batons of the guards. The latter are accustomed to 
beat them, if the guide is to be believed. 

Disarmed, shut up, forced to work like children, these men 
inspired me with pity, instead of making me think of the 
crimes and misdemeanors which had caused them to be incar- 
cerated. I will say more: It is almost tenderness — a singular 
tenderness, that one feels in presence of that horde of wretches, 
who bow with such an humble manner; who seem to work 
with so much zeal, and show us the primers in which they 
learn to read, and all this with timid, infantine airs. 

Yes, they are flogged; that can be seen. They have the 
look of those poor street dogs that lie down resignedly to 
receive blows. 

But what heads! I should really like to make a picture 
there. I have permission, and if I find some corner, with 
three or four persons— unhappily, that leads you on to too 
large a picture. 

I advise all travelers to visit this sombre prison before seeing 
the Generaliffe, whose gardens are a foretaste of Paradise, 
certainly. Ah! how to describe those tangles of rose laurels, 
of oranges, of the richest and most exquisite plants, those 
cypress alleys, those arabesque walls covered with roses, those 
brooks flowing through banks of violets! Go to the prison, 
then to the Generaliffe. 

To-morrow I shall devote to the Alhambra, and the head of 
a convict I am going to paint. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 599 

Friday, October 28th. — I have passed my day in the prisons 
of Granada. The prisoners enjoy much liberty. The court 
resembles a market. The doors do not have the appearance 
of shutting tightly; in short, this prison does not resemble 
the descriptions of the convict stations in France. 

My poor convict posed very well all day; but as I made the 
head life-size, and sketched the hands in a day (sublime 
genius!), I have not rendered the astonishingly ambiguous 
character of this individual as accurately as usual, and I do 
wrong to lay it to the lack of time. That I am not better satis- 
fied is owing to the light, which changed, several times, and 
also to those good convicts of whom I had constantly a dozen 
at my back. They came in relays, but they were always there, 
and it is annoying to feel eyes behind you. The excellent 
deputy had put chairs behind me, as at the theatre, in the 
room in which I worked, for his friends, who succeeded each 
other there during the whole day. Each moment there was a 
knocking at the door; it was the prisoners — those not bad — the 
corporals, who asked to come in and were permitted to do 
so. The interpreter and Rosalie stayed there all the time, and 
through them I learned that a man who killed his wife is 
going to be strangled publicly next week. Then, there is a 
prisoner locked up for refusing to kneel before a religious pro- 
cession, and other astonishing things. Have you ever marked 
that when one says, as I did just now, and other astonishing 
things, or there were other things quite as remarkable, or again, 
what I say here is nothing compared to the rest, it is always 
because one passes over nothing, even that which is worst; 
that one has said what is most striking, and there is nothing 
else to be said, and that one wishes to make an impression, 
Very often, speaking of a person, one cites his worst action, 
saying: " This is something that is habitual to him; judge, 
then, what his grave sins must be." But let us return to my 
convict. I had supposed him guilty of the most heinous 
crimes, and all he did, it seems, was to pass counterfeit money. 



600 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The idea of his relative innocence has prevented me, per- 
haps, from giving him the criminal appearance which he really 
has, for he has a head capable of anything, so I am going 
to weave a little romance about him which I shall tell in Paris. 
The balconied window looked on the court, and all those poor 
fellows looked through at the model, and the easel, and the 
painter, with Spanish avidity. When I came away, they gath- 
ered like starved dogs about the easel, with wide-open eyes, 
hands joined together, and exclamations of amazement at 
their comrade's portrait. 

As he crossed the threshold, the deputy had the complacency 
to show the canvas to the whole court-yard of convicts who 
stood on tiptoe to look at it. Then he carried it to the super- 
intendent, and to the warden, who descended to bow me into 
my carriage. Then, with the deputy walking in front of the 
horses, we stopped in front of the house of another dignitary 
of the prison, who came out to see the picture, and, after the 
deputy and warden had renewed the assurance that they 
would be pleased to have me repeat my visit, I at length 
started off to take a drive with my aunt. 

I have written on the corner of my canvas " Antonio Lopez, 
condemned to death October, 1881, for murder and counter- 
feiting." Poor man! however, I have calumniated him under a 
pseudonym. His name may be Roderigo, or Perez, or even 
Lopez. I have represented him at his knitting; the most of 
these amiable citizens— that is to say, all those who are not 
employed in the shops at carpenter work, cabinet-making, 
shoe-making, etc. — knit stockings, like peaceable housewives. 

The convict condemned to death walked about the court- 
yard as unconstrained as those who were only in for a year 
or two, for some bagatelle. 

Several of these gentlemen prefer domestic cooking to the 
meals served at the establishment, and their gracious consorts 
bring them extraordinary dinners, which Coco surely would 
not touch — Coco, surnamed the assassin, no one ever knew 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 601 

why, and who, each time that his companions acted toward me 
as did Francis I. with Titian, jumped on them without bark- 
ing, so as to bite the more surely. 

Saturday, October 2gt/i. — At last I have seen the Alhambra; 
I made it a rule not to linger before the most beautiful objects; 
first, not to become wedded to Granada; and, secondly, 
because the guide who took us marred my artistic enjoyment 
by his presence. I am determined to return to this country 
once more before I die. 

Granada, seen from the tower, is completely beautiful. 
There are mountains covered with snow, gigantic trees, exqui- 
site plants and flowers, the clear sky, and Granada itself, with 
its white houses basking in the sun; and in the midst of all 
these beauties of nature the Arab walls and the towers of the 
Generaliffe and of the Alhambra! And in the distance there 
is a vast horizon resembling the sea; in fact, nothing but the 
sea is wanting to make this the most beautiful country in the 
world. 

The Arab costume, certainly, is the most picturesque of any. 
Nothing is comparable to the proud elegance of these superb 
draperies. I am haunted by the thought of the late Boabdil 
and his Moors, whom I imagine walking about in this incom- 
parable palace. 

This afternoon I made a study in a small street, and on 
completing it wrote on the wall: " Here Audrey worked, 
1881." But the shadow on the right of the sketch is of too 
warm a tone, which mars the effect of the brilliancy of the 
light, and it grieves me. Would you imagine that it was cold, 
and my fingers were so stiff that I had to go and warm myself 
in the sun? I am not encouraged to stay here since I can not 
work in the open air. Why do I stew and shiver here; pass 
terribly dull evenings; stay awake in these infamously hard 
beds; and eat daily only a plate of soup and a piece of bread, 
with a cup of coffee in the morning? Because I wished to 
take away at least one good sketch. 



602 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Sunday, October $oth. — I passed the whole day at the gypsy 
camp, and to no purpose. The weather was glacial, my face was 
chapped with the cold, my canvas covered with sand and dust; 
in short, I accomplished nothing. But what a valuable lesson 
it is for an artist to stay there a whole day to seize those 
attitudes, those groups, those effects of light and shade! 
They are very well disposed toward foreigners because the 
Spaniards despise them. You could come for two or three 
months and make sketches daily, and there would be always 
material left. I rave over these gypsy types. They have 
postures, motions, and attitudes of such a natural and pecu- 
liar grace. Marvelous pictures could be painted here. Your 
eyes fly around in every direction, as they say in Russian; 
everything is a picture. It is exasperating to have come so 
late; but in spite of the strongest desire to do so, it is impos- 
sible to work; the wind from the snow-covered mountains is 
piercing and can not be withstood. But it is beautiful, beau- 
tiful, beautiful! When I started in to work, the gypsies 
rushed up and grouped themselves all around on the natural 
steps of the mountain — imagine what a favorable condition — 
and their curiosity is entirely sympathetic, while the people 
who surrounded me in the street the other day annoyed me 
intensely. The Spaniards do nothing; the result is, that 
instead of coming up to look and passing on, a mass of them 
stay behind you two or three hours. And, mark you, I 
worked in a deserted street, in a diabolical wind; and there 
are a great many painters here. 

Granada is as artistic and picturesque as Seville is bour- 
geoise, notwithstanding it possesses a celebrated college. All 
the streets of Granada, or almost all, are a painter's delight. 

One is dazzled and thrilled in every sense. One can stop 
at hazard and paint what is in front of him, and it will be a 
picture. 

I want to come back here next August, and remain through 
September, and the first half of October. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 603 

Monday, October 31st. — I am glad the cold drives me away, 
otherwise I should not leave, and I ought to return. It is five 
months since I have seen Tony; and a studio must be rented 
to paint my picture for the Salon without hurry, and in my 
best vein. The first year it amounted to nothing. Last year 
you know how short the time was, etc., to say nothing about 
the subject not being mine. But this year I believe I have 
something of interest. 

I shall paint Lorenzo's bric-a-brac shop with a staircase in 
the background, and a bright light, with a woman arrang- 
ing carpets on a sort of dais; in the foreground another 
woman is rubbing up copper work, in a stooping posture, and 
the proprietor watches her, standing with his hands in his 
pockets smoking a cigar. 

The women shall be clothed in their ordinary chintz dresses, 
which I shall buy on our return to Madrid. And I have 
nearly all the stuffs necessary. The dais must be set up, and 
that will cost 100 francs. Well, I start this evening and I 
can not help singing from joy. 

My trip to Spain will have served to cure me of the habit 
of eating for the sake of eating, which takes up time and 
dulls the intellect. I have cultivated an Arab abstinence and 
only eat what is absolutely necessary, just enough to sustain 
life. 

The son-in-law of the gypsy chief, at whose camp I 
painted, had just come out of the galleys, where he had 
passed four years — for abducting a little girl thirteen years 
old. 

Wednesday, November 2d. — Here we are again at Madrid, 
which I have been anticipating for a week, and I shall spend 
three days making a new study of Lorenzo. After having 
heard me talk continually of my plan, and having seen my 
impatience to return to Madrid, it is entirely natural, is it not, 
that my aunt, in street costume, should come and say to me: 
"Well, are we going to spend the day shopping?" And as 



604 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I replied that I was going to paint, she appeared absolutely- 
astonished, and told me that I was insane. 

An idea comes to me; I think I have hit on a good sub- 
ject; my dream begins to take a bodily shape; I commence 
my sketch, entirely absorbed in my work, ransacking my head 
for harmonious combinations; and as J am chasing up some 
idea — which is still very vague and may escape before I can 
seize it — my dear family arrives, my family who love me so 
and are so uneasy when I cough. I am not over-sensitive; I 
deem myself very practical, compared with other artists — 
although I am not enough so, as you know. Oh, stolid and 
stupid family! they will never comprehend that one less 
strong, less energetic, less exuberant than I, would be dead 
already. 

Saturday, November $th. — I am in Paris to my immense 
delight. I counted the hours shivering in the car. The 
sharp air and the brilliant sun of Spain make the gray calm 
of this handsome city seem delicious to me, and I regard the 
ceramics at the Louvre with pleasure — the mere thought of 
them used to bore me. 

Julian believed that I would not return until much later, 
and ill, and perhaps not return at all. 

Ah! how sweet is sympathy, but painting is above every- 
thing. 

Sunday, November 6th. — The lawsuit is ended and won. 
That is to say, the trial showed that there was no cause of 
action. It seems impossible, it has been pending so long; 
nevertheless, it is true. We have just received a dispatch 
from mamma. This is a. happy day. 

Tuesday, November i$th. — I have told Julian of a plan I 
have for a picture — and he approved of it. But he no longer 
inspires me with confidence, he appears mazy. At least, I 
imagine all this. 

Tony remains to me, but I have cultivated him less and — 
well, we shall see. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 605 

Poor Colignon died more than three weeks ago. 

We never cared for each other much, but toward the last 
she was so unhappy that, though I did not^care for her, I 
pitied her. 

Thursday, November ip/i. — Yesterday, I could not drag 
myself about, on account of a cold, a cough, and pains in my 
chest, my throat, and my back; I could swallow nothing, and 
alternated ten times between a chill and a fever. 

I am a little better to-day, but that is poor consolation for 
one treated by the greatest doctors in the world; and for 
such a long time, too; ever since I first lost my voice I have 
been under treatment. Yes, behold the ring of Polycrates 
which I throw into the sea in spite of myself! Well, since 
this frightful malady has such a grip upon me, it would be 
only justice if I were to have all sorts of luck in other 
directions. 

It will not be said that I possess all good things, no matter 
what heights I attain. 

Monday, November 21st. — Potain was sent for Wednesday, 
and he came to-day. I might have collapsed in the interval. 

I knew well that he would send me to the South again, and 
in anticipation, I had my teeth set, my voice trembled, and I 
repressed my tears by a great effort. 

To go South is to surrender, and the persecutions of my 
family make it a point of honor with me to keep up at all 
hazards. To go away — that means the triumph of all the 
vermin of the studios. 

"She is very sick; they have taken her South." 

Tuesday, November 22d. — It is impossible to imagine how 
exasperating for me is this exile in the South. It seems as if 
everything were at an end for me, who had returned intoxi- 
cated with the idea of keeping still and working, working- 
hard without let up, following the inspiration — and now, 
everything is blotted out anew. 

And while others will be constantly advancing, in the midst 



606 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

of this artistic Paris, I shall be down there doing nothing, or 
trying to paint a picture in the open air, which is something 
horribly difficulty 

Look at Breslau, it is not her peasant woman that brought 
her any reputation. In a word, my heart cracks and breaks 
in front of all this. 

This evening I saw Charcot, who said that the disease has 
not advanced since last year; the trouble with me the last 
week has been simply a severe cold, which is not at all dan- 
gerous, and will soon disappear. As regards the South, it is 
the same; I must go away or shut myself up exactly like a 
prisoner. Otherwise, I run the risk of serious illness; my 
right lung is affected, and yet it seems there is hope for me; 
my disease is not incurable; it is confined to one spot and does 
riot grow worse, in spite of all my alleged imprudences. They 
told me the same thing last year, and I would not even listen 
to them; now I hesitate, and spend hours crying, as yester- 
day, at the idea of leaving Paris again and breaking off my 
work. 

It is true that if I am often as I have been these last few 
days, Paris will not do me much good. 

This is what makes me desperate! 

Surrender, acknowledge myself vanquished; say: "Yes, the 
doctors are right! Yes, I am very ill!" 

Ah, no, decidedly everything goes wrong! 

Saturday, November 26th. — I intended to go to Tony, you 
remember, to work under his eyes, and to show him my 
sketch and decide upon something, but I have not started out. 
I am weak and can eat nothing, probably due to my constant 
fever. It is terribly sad to be kept in inaction by — by I 
know not what; in a word, to have no strength. Charcot 
came again. 

Mamma and Dina arrived yesterday, summoned by my aunt's 
insane dispatches. This morning, Dina received a letter from 
her sister, asking how I was getting along. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 607 

I have taken cold, I know; but that can happen to anybody. 

And then; no, all is ended. My ears are in a sad state from 
this cold and this fever. To what can I aspire? What can I 
obtain? There is nothing further to hope for. It is as if a 
veil had been torn the other day; five or six days ago. All 
is ended, all is ended, all is ended! 

Tuesday, November 29th. — Well! This has lasted a fort- 
night, and will, probably, continue as much longer. 

Madame Nachet brought me a bouquet of violets to-day, 
and I received her, as I do everybody; for, in spite of a fever 
which has not left me for two weeks, and a pulmonary conges- 
tion on the left side, alias pleurisy, and two blisters, I do not 
capitulate — I get up and act like a well person. Only the 
quinine makes me deaf. The other night I thought I should 
die of fright when I discovered that I could not hear my 
watch tick. And I must keep on taking the stuff! 

Otherwise, I feel almost strong; and were it not that I have 
not been able to swallow anything for a fortnight, I should 
not feel ill at all. 

Ah! my work — my picture, my poor picture! It is the 29th 
of November, and I can not begin before the end of December. 
I shall not have time enough in two months and a half. What 
ill-luck! and, when one is born unfortunate, how impossible it 
is to resist! Look at me; painting seemed a refuge, and here 
I am, at times, almost deaf; hence, a frightful bother with the 
models, perpetual anguish, and an inability to paint portraits 
without acknowledging my weakness, which I have not the 
courage to do. Besides, with this illness, it is impossible to 
work, and I am obliged to stay shut up for a month. The 
whole thing is too melancholy! 

Dina stays with me constantly! She is so kind. 

Paul and his wife arrived yesterday. The Gavinis and 
Gery came, and Bojidar and Alexis. I keep constantly on 
the lookout, and avoid scrapes by means of courage and chaff. 

The doctors are the victims of my pleasantries at present. 



608 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Potain, not able to be here constantly, sends me a doctor, who 
comes daily. • 

And that amuses me; for I play mad, and profit by that 
state, to indulge in insane ravings. 

Wednesday, November 30M. — Julian came yesterday even- 
ing; he thinks me very ill. I saw it from his somewhat 
affected gaiety; as for me, I am profoundly melancholy. I 
do nothing; and my picture! But, above all, to do nothing! 
Do you understand this despair? I stay here with my arms 
folded, while the others work, make progress, paint their 
pictures! 

I thought that God had left me my painting, and I had 
devoted myself to it as a supreme refuge; and behold, it fails 
me, and I can only cry my eyes out. 

Thursday, December 1st. — Friday, December 2d. — Already it is 
the 2d of December. I should be at work seeking fabrics, and 
the large vase which is to figure in the background. What is 
the use of these details? Only to make me weep. I feel 
much stronger, I eat, I sleep, I am almost as strong as usual. 

But the lower part of my left lung is affected. The right 
lung, the chronic one, is better, it appears; but that does not 
console me. This frightful illness, which can be cured, will 
keep me shut up at home/tfr some weeks yet. It is enough to 
make me drown myself. 

Oh, it is cruel of God! I had annoyances, family disagree- 
ments; but these did not harrow me to the bottom of my soul, 
so to speak, and then I had tremendous hopes. I lost my 
voice — the first personal attack— then I became used to that, 
resigned myself to it, rose above it, consoled myself for it. 

Ah, since you accommodate yourself to all that, the means 
of working shall be taken away from you! 

No studying, no painting, nothing more, and a delay of 
a whole winter for me who had put my whole life into my 
work. Only those who have been in my position can compre- 
hend me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 609 

Wednesday, December ph. — What exasperates me is my ill- 
ness. Yesterday, that horrible Potain (who comes every day, as 
the great man can only inconvenience himself twice a week) 
asked me, in a casual manner, if I were getting ready to travel? 

Their South! Oh, the idea alone completely upsets me. I 
could not eat any dinner, and if Julian had not come, I should 
have cried with rage all the evening. 

Well, never mind what happens, I will not go to their South! 

Friday, December gth. — There is a drawing from Breslau in 
the Vie Moderne. If I had not cried so much, I might have 
used the time of my illness in making sketches and outlines; 
but my hand still trembles a little. 

My lung is better; but my temperature continues to be 
over ioo°. 

I feel myself lost, and I do not dare to ask any questions 
for fear of hearing what Breslau is about to produce. 

Oh, my God, hear me, give me strength, have pity on me! 

Thursday, December i$th. — I have been ill four weeks and 
two days. I made a scene by crying before Potain, who did 
not know how to calm me; for, leaving aside the subterfuges, 
and cock-and-bull stories, and other exquisite things with 
which I regale his imagination, I set to bewailing myself, 
and, with my hair tumbled, shed genuine tears, and lisped 
infantine woes, talking like a little girl. And to think that 
I worked myself up in cold blood, and did not really think 
what I said! Whenever I attempt to play this sort of a part, 
I am actually pale, and I cry; in fact, it seems to me that I 
could make an astonishing actress; but I cough and have not 
the necessary amount of lung-power at present. 

My father arrived this morning. Everything passed off 
very well, no one but Paul's wife was entirely upset, but 
then she feels toward him an indifference which amounts 
almost to hostility. As for me, I maintained a becoming 
demeanor. I gave him a very handsome emerald, a gift from 
mamma, that I did not know what to do with. 

39 



610 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I felt a grain of regret afterward. I might have given it to 
Dina, who adores jewels; but, pshaw! 

I do not say that papa is a bore; on the contrary, he resem- 
bles me a little in mind, as he does physically (this is a 
compliment for him); but that man never will comprehend me! 

Imagine that he has a scheme of taking us back with him 
for Easter! 

No! That is too outrageous, and the indelicacy is too 
great. With my health, to talk of taking me to Russia in 
February or March!!! You can appreciate it. Let it go! 
Without mentioning all the rest! Oh, no! for me who refused 
to go South? No, no, no! By all means let us say no more 
about it. 

Sunday, December iZth. — I poured forth my woes to Julian, 
and he endeavored to console me by advising me to make 
sketches every day of the things that impress me. The 
things that impress me? And what could I find in my sur- 
roundings? Breslau is poor, but she lives in an eminently 
artistic atmosphere. Maria's best friend is a musician; 
Schaeppi is original although vulgar; and besides, there is Sara 
Purser, painter and philosopher, with whom she has discussions 
on Kantism, on life, on the ego, and on death, w T hich compel 
reflection, and engrave on the mind what has been read or 
heard. Everything about her, even to the quarter in which 
she dwells, is artistic. But my own quarter is so respectable, 
so uniform, where one sees neither a beggar-woman, nor an 
untrimmed tree, nor a crooked street. Then I murmur 
against riches? No, but I allege that easy circumstances pre- 
vent artistic development, and that the surroundings are half 
of the man. 

Wednesday, December 21st. — To-day, I went out! Oh! in 
furs, with the windows closed and a bear-skin around my feet. 
Potain said this morning that I could go out if there were less 
wind, and I took precautions. The weather is splendid, and 
the precautions! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. * 611 

But that is no longer the question, it is " Breslau with a firm 
grip on her prey " — my Salon picture has flashed in the pan. 
Yes, what could I have to rival her picture of last summer? 

That girl is a power; she is not the only one, I acknowledge; 
but we came from the same cage, not to say from the same 
nest, and I divined and foresaw her success and foretold it 
from the first; I who was ignorant then, extremely ignorant. 
I despise and disown myself; I do not understand why Julian 
and Tony say what they do. I am nothing, I have rien dans 
le ventre (oh, Zola!*). In comparison with Breslau I seem to 
myself a small, brittle, pasteboard box, next a massive oaken 
coffer, richly sculptured. I am in despair, and so convinced 
that I shall never succeed, that, if I were to speak of it to the 
masters, they would be gained over. 

But I will struggle on, all the same, with my eyes closed, and 
my arms stretched out, as one about to be engulfed. 

Thursday, December 29th. — I have not written a word for 
over a week; that shows you that my glorious existence has 
rolled on between a little work and society. There is nothing 
new; nevertheless, if I feel well, I go out; I have gone to try 
on gowns and to the Bois, and to Julian's Saturday with 
mamma and Dina. • And Sunday to church, so that people 
would not say that I am at death's door, which the charming 
Berthe tells everywhere. 

On the contrary, I am rapidly recovering; my arms, which 
were so thin ten days ago, are becoming round, that is to say I 
am much better than before my illness. 

A week more of this and the fattening must be stopped — I 
shall have reached the proper weight — for I do not wish to 
become so stout as I was three years ago. Julian, who came 
yesterday evening, considers me much improved. We laughed 
the whole evening. I am doing the portrait of Paul's wife. 
Yesterday, there was such a return of strength that I wished to 

* This expression is originally Balzac's. It occurs in Illusions Perdues. — 
A. D. H. 



612 * JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

do Dina, Nini, and Irma at the same time. Irma is not an 
ordinary model, she is a type — extinct, they say — of the gri- 
settej she is droll and sentimental, with a sort of artless vicious- 
ness. "When you have become a cocotte" I said to her the 
other day. She replied, " Oh, as for me, I have not luck 
enough for that!" 

She poses intelligently. One can make much of her with 
her astonishing pallor; she is a candid young girl, as well 
as an abyss of depravity like all those women. 

She asked permission to remain, though not posing, and 
passed the afternoon knitting before the fire. 

Friday, December 30M. — Everybody has been quarreling all 
day. 

At last, to counteract the effect, I went to Tony's, to show 
him the outline of the portrait of Paul's wife. He thought it 
very original in arrangement and well begun. That most 
sympathetic of Tonys showed his delight at seeing me in good 
health, and, after chatting gaily, we touched on the very grave 
subject of art, and of Breslau, among others. 

" Her picture is certainly very good," he said; " she is very 
talented." 

Oh, this paper is incapable of interpreting me! All my fire 
and fever — oh! to work day and night all the time, all the 
time, and produce something of importance! I know that he 
said that when I will it I shall do as much as she. I know that 
he considers me quite as talented; but I am ready to weep, to 
die, to flee, no matter where. But what will anything avail? 

Ah! Tony has confidence in me, but I have no confidence 
in myself. I am devoured with the desire to do well, and I 
know my impotence. There I stop. If you believe me liter- 
ally, you will believe only the truth. I say this with the desire 
of being contradicted. 

Oh, Lord! I write all this and spend my time seeking liter- 
ary expression for my torments, and Breslau, less of a fool, 
draws and works. 



i882. 



Monday, January 2d. — My painting roused me to enthusi- 
asm; I do not feel worthy to say " my art." To talk of art 
(and its aspirations or inspirations) one must be already cele- 
brated; otherwise, one has the air of a ridiculous amateur, 
or, rather, there is something indelicate in the assumption 
which wounds the better part of my nature. It is as if one 
boasted of a good action — false shame, in short. 

Wednesday, January 4th. — Julian passed the evening ban- 
tering me on my admiration for Tony and the feeling I had 
inspired in him. At midnight we had chocolate. Dina was 
very pleasant. I can understand reserving one's graces for 
connoisseurs. 

I always arrange my costume with particular care for the 
artists, and make it something entirely different from my ordi- 
nary dress — long robes without corsets, draperies, etc. In 
society, my waist would not be considered slender enough nor 
my dress sufficiently in style; thus all my prettiest phantasies, 
too extravagant for society, serve to minister to the fine arts. 
I continually dream of being the mistress of a Salon full of 
celebrated people. 

Friday, January 6th. — Art, even in the humblest, elevates 
the soul and gives something that is lacking to those outside 
of the sublime brotherhood. 

Wednesday, January 11th. — We are to give a soiree to-mor- 
row, the eve of our new year. We have been preparing for it 
for a week; we have sent out more than 250 invitations, for 
our friends have asked for a great many. As no one is receiv- 
ing yet, it is an event, and I think the gathering will be very 

(613) 



614 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

stylish, and it will be altogether a fine affair. Etincelle has 
spoken of it in her column in Figaro, accompanying the notice 
with a dithyrambic in honor of Mademoiselle Marie, pretty, 
a painter, etc. She is charming; if she had written nothing, 
I still should think her the most charming of ugly women; she 
is more seductive than fifty pretty women, and she has that 
stamp of distinction which is peculiar to the Parisian celeb- 
rities. Mark well what I say, for it is very difficult to grasp. 
All people who are celebrated and live in the public gaze, 
whether men or women, young or old, all have a certain note 
in the voice, a certain air which is the same in all, and which I 
shall call the family air of notability. 

We are to have the two Coquelins. The elder, the friend 
of Leon, came yesterday to see the rooms and consult on the 
choice of pieces. G — was there and tired me with his affected 
airs; he came near giving advice to Coquelin, who is very 
agreeable — let it be said here, a good fellow — and does not 
make you feel for an instant that embarrassment which many 
people feel in presence of a stranger who is a celebrity. 

Friday, January i$th. — The two Coquelins were superb, and 
the salon presented a charming spectacle, with all the pretty 
women present: first, the ravishing trio, the Marchioness of 
Reverseaux, daughter of Janvier de la Motte; Madame 
Thouvenal, and Madame de Joly. The Countess of Kessler, 
and — oh, well, nearly all were pretty; to sum it all up, as was 
remarked by Tony, who did not come any more than Julian, a 
respectable set of guests. Madame de G — was charmed, 
and ended by dancing and waltzing, upon my word, with 
Count Plater. 

First, we had a dinner. In the artist world was present the 
brother of Bastien-Lepage, who is still away. It is always 
the brother. Thursday we are going to see the real Bastien. 
And George Bertrand — last year he painted an admirable, a 
moving picture, entitled " The Standard." I admired it very 
much and he sent me a very polite note. I sent him an invi- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 615 

tation on behalf of "Pauline Orell." Pollack introduced him 
to me. It was amusing; he paid me great compliments, for 
notwithstanding I had hid them, Dina showed certain studies to 
a favored few. Carrier-Belleuse melted under my eyes, and 
toward the end of the evening became quite soft and senti- 
mental, insisting on the cruelty of the device, Gloria Cupido. 

There is a bachelor capable of falling very deeply in love; 
perhaps he is so already, but that will wear off; he sees the 
Gloria Cupido — and nothing else. 

We had supper at 3 o'clock; nearly sixty people remained, 
and Gabriel sat at my right. Nini was charming, with her 
magnificent shoulders and a very pretty dress; Dina, mamma, 
and my aunt all looked well. I wore a dress designed by 
Doucet and myself together, an almost faithful reproduction 
of the " Broken Pitcher," by Greuze. 

Hair flowing from a little knot tolerably high on the nape of 
the neck; great festoons of Bengalese roses were scattered 
over the skirt, which was made of silk muslin, short, and laid 
in pleats; bodice of satin, laced in front, very full, laid in 
loose, unfastened folds, fichu knotted across; ovepskirt of 
muslin lined with satin, opened in front and turned back in 
revers to form paniers, one of which was filled with roses. The 
whole produced a charming effect. That odious Potain fol- 
lowed me like a shadow and headed me off from dancing. 

Sunday r , January i$th. — There was a long article by Etin- 
celle about our soiree, but, as we were anticipating it, we are 
not satisfied. She compares me to the " Broken Pitcher," and 
they fear lest that be taken for an insult at Poltava. People 
are too stupid! The article is very good; only, as she said 
two days ago I was one of the handsomest women of the 
Russian Empire, she was content this time with describing 
my dress, hence, I am disappointed. 

I am absorbed in art. I think that, together with my 
pleurisy, I caught the sacred fire somewhere in Spain. I am 
developing from an artisan into an artist; it is an incubation 



616 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

of celestial things which makes me a little flighty. I make 
compositions at night, I dream of an Ophelia. Potain has 
promised to take me to St. Anne, to see the faces of the 
insane; besides, an Arab — an old Arab, seated, and singing 
with a sort of guitar, haunts me, and I am thinking of a large 
canvas for the approaching Salon, a bit of the carnival; but 
for that I must go to Nice. Naples for the carnival, of course, 
but I must paint the picture in the open air at Nice, where I 
have my villa; and I tell you all this, and yet I want to stay 
here. 

Saturday, January 21st. — Madame C — has just taken us to 
see Bastien-Lepage. We found several American women 
there; and little Bastien-Lepage, who is very small, and blonde, 
with hair worn Breton style, a turn-up nose, and the fluffy beard 
of a very young man. They showed us everything. I adore 
his painting, but it is impossible to revere him as a master; 
we feel like treating him as a comrade, and his pictures are 
there to fill us with admiration, awe, and envy. There are 
four or five, all life-size, and painted in the open air. They 
are altogether beautiful. One of them represents a cow-girl, 
eight or ten years old, in a field; a leafless tree, and the cow 
under it. There is an all-pervading poetry, and the little one's 
eyes have an expression of infantine and rural reverie that I 
can not describe. He seems like a good-natured, little man, 
very well pleased with himself — this Bastien! 

I went back to help mamma entertain a large number of 
people. " That is the result of giving soirees in Paris, " said one 
of our friends. 

Sunday, January 22^. — I am possessed, for the moment, by 
the carnival; I make charcoal sketches. If one had the 
talent, this would be beautiful to execute. 

Friday, January 2p/i. — Gambetta has fallen — that is to say, 
he is no longer minister; but that is nothing, in my opinion. 

Only what is going on makes one wonder at the cowardice 
and bad faith of men! Those who rail at Gambetta, the oppo- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 617 

sition leaders, do not believe a word of all these idiotic accu- 
sations of dictatorship. 

Ah! the infamies which are daily committed revolt me! 

Monday, January $oth. — We are going to the villa Gery, at 
Nice. Saturday was a good day for me. Bastien, whom I 
had seen the evening before at the ball presided over by the 
Queen, for the benefit of the Breton life-savers, came, and stayed 
more than an hour. I showed him some of my work, and he 
gave me advice with a flattering severity. Besides, he said 
that I was marvelously gifted. This did not seem like a com- 
pliment; so I felt such a violent flood of joy that I was on the 
point of seizing the little man by the head and kissing him. 

All the same, I am very glad to have heard it. He gave the 
same advice as Tony and Julian, and said the same things. 
Besides, is he not the pupil of Cabanel? Everyone has his 
individual style; but, as for the grammar of the art, that must 
be caught always from those who are called the classics. 
Bastien, or anyone else, can not teach his own peculiar charm. 
One learns only what can be learned; the rest depends on the 
individual. 

Madame de Peronny (Etincelle) came, and I passed a 
delightful quarter of an hour between that superior woman 
and that great artist before my fire-place. I was over- 
whelmed with vanity and pleasure. 

I did not pay any attention to the other callers, whom I left 
in the official Salon with mamma. 

Nice. — We started at 8 o'clock in the evening, Paul, Dina, 
I, Nini, Rosalie, Basile, and Coco. The villa Gery is every- 
thing that is desirable, in the open country, and only ten min- 
utes from the Promenade des Anglais; a terrace, gardens, and a 
large, comfortable house. 

We found everything in readiness, and the agent, Monsieur 
Pecoux, awaiting us with bouquets. 

I took a horse-car trip this evening which enchanted me. 
It is like Italy, and yet there is French gaiety, and without the 



618 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

genre canaille of Paris. As I wrote to Julian, it is as con- 
venient as Paris, and as picturesque as Granada; a few yards 
from the Promenade des Anglais, one finds costumes, rags, 
types, and wonderful coloring! Why go to Spain? Oh, Nice! 
Oh, the South; the Mediterranean! Oh, my beloved country, 
which hath caused me so much suffering! Oh, my first joys, 
and my greatest griefs! Oh, my childhood; my ambitions; 
my graces! 

In spite of me, Nice will always represent to me the begin- 
ning of everything, and side by side with the sufferings that 
darkened my life at fifteen, there will be always the remem- 
brance of my first youth, which is like the most beautiful 
flowers of life. 

Tuesday, February ph. — I am ruined. Wolff devotes a 
dozen most flattering lines to Mademoiselle Breslau. 

But this is not my fault. One can only do one's best. She 
is wholly absorbed in her art; as for me, 1 design costumes. 
I dream of draperies, of corsages, of triumphs in Nicene 
society. I do not wish to say that I should have her talent if 
I did as she does; she follows her bent, and I mine. But my 
wings are clipped. I feel my impotence so strongly that I some- 
times feel like giving up painting altogether. Julian said that 
I could do as well as Breslau, if I chose. If I chose — but how 
can I? Those who succeed by the I will are, unknown to 
themselves, sustained by secret forces which I lack, and to 
think that at times I not only believe in the future of my 
talent, but even feel the sacred fire of genius!! Oh, sadness! 

Here, at least, it is nobody's fault; this is less exasperating. 

There is nothing so horrible as to say to yourself, without 
this or that, I might, perhaps — Here, I think, I do all I can, 
and arrive at no result. 

Oh, my God, decree that I deceive myself, and that my con- 
sciousness of mediocracy may be an injustice! 

Friday, February 10th. — It has been so hard a blow that I 
have just passed three truly unhappy days. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 619 

I no longer work at my great picture, but at more reason- 
able things, simpler things, and studies. I have made a 
solemn resolution not to lose a minute, and not to do a stroke 
in the open air — to concentrate myself. Bastien recommends it 
to me, so did Julian, and so did that fortunate Breslau. Yes, 
truly fortunate, and to be as lucky as she is, I would give, 
unhesitatingly, everything that is called my happiness; and 
my riches, 10,000 francs income, to be independent and to 
have talent; with that, one has everything. 

All the same, that girl is terribly fortunate! I feel so 
unhappy every time I think of that article by Wolff! Never- 
theless, it is not what is called envy. I have not the heart to 
analyze it and try to find out just what the feeling is. 

Monday, February 13th. — I began a picture Saturday. I 
have been looking for a subject for a fortnight. I tried two 
or three things but they did not get beyond the second sitting. 
It is always that way when the subject is not exactly right. 

You resign yourself to a subject, not to lose time searching, 
then you think you can make something of it; besides, what is 
sought for rarely succeeds; what is found does not always suc- 
ceed either, but at least you have the pleasure of an inspiration. 
When, then, will I persuade myself that the subject is nothing 
in unskillful hands? 

Nevertheless, even for simple studies, what you do must 
please you; saying to myself that the subject should not pre- 
occupy one, I undertook a picture which made me very 
unhappy for four or five days; I did not dare to drop it and I 
had not the heart to work; since I have renounced it I feel as 
though I were delivered from a heavy burden; I make sketches, 
and, for the first time, water colors; all my minutes are taken 
up and I have found a subject for my picture; for, in addition 
to the small things, I must take back a large study to Julian. 
It is three gamins by a porte-coch&re. It seems to me 
extremely true and interesting. The blow of Wolff's article 
has done me good; I was crushed, annihilated, and the reac- 



620 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

tion has made me understand things in art that tormented me 
because I did not find them while I doubted their existence. 
It has forced me to make a salutary effort; I also begin to 
understand what I have read of the struggles, sufferings, 
etc., of artists; I used to laugh at them as hollow romanticism. 
That famous will of Breslau I have called to my aid. I see 
that one must make great efforts to obtain results which I 
thought fell from the sky. The fact is, I have hardly made a 
veritable effort up to the present time. My extreme facility in 
work has spoiled me. Breslau obtains fine results, but very 
laboriously; as for me, when it does not come to me immedi- 
ately, and of itself , I remain stupid. This must be conquered. 
So I have endeavored to force myself to a desired definiteness 
in sketches and charcoal compositions, and I have succeeded 
in doing things of which I thought myself incapable, and 
which I thought that others did by knack, and almost by sor- 
cery; it is so difficult to accord to others faculties in which 
you, yourself, are deficient. 

If I could continue to work as I have in the last few days, I 
should be very happy! It is not enough to work like a 
machine, but to be busy all the time, and to think of what you 
are doing, that is happiness. There is no pleasure like it. And 
I, who complain so often, come and give thanks to God fos 
these three days, though trembling lest it may not last. 

The whole aspect of everything is changed. Little incon- 
veniences possess but little power to annoy me; I feel above 
them, with something radiant in my spirit. I feel a divine 
indulgence toward the vile multitude which ignores the secret, 
changing, undulating, and diverse causes of my beatitude, 
more fragile than the most fragile of flowers. 

Tuesday \ February i^th. — Ah! how we who have read Balzac, 
and read Zola, enjoy our powers of observation! 

Wednesday, February \$th. — It is little by little that the eyes 
open; before, I saw only the design and the subject of pic- 
tures; at present — ah! at present, if I did but reproduce as 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 621 

I see, I should have talent. I see the landscape; I see and love 
the landscape, the water, the air, the color — the color! 

Sunday, February igth. — If you knew what torments I suf- 
fer! I struggle against laziness and against this terrible, it is 
going to be bad, which prevents me from doing anything, and I 
suffer burning remorse for every hour lost. And why do I not 
make sketches, and this and that? And when I see the draw- 
ings in the Vie Moderne I turn red, and then pale, and wish, 
at the first stroke, to do as those do who have been drawing 
for ten years, not comprehending that one must work all the 
time and keep at it, and make bad pictures over and over 
again before one can make good ones. 

Ah! what a terrible and dangerous moment it is when one 
leaves the regular and mechanical work of the class and feels 
the necessity of parceling one's self out, so to speak, and doing 
all sorts of things; when one is left to depend on one's own 
resources, and has to decide what must be done, what is lack- 
ing — in a word, to measure one's own capabilities. 

It is a good sign, but it is exceedingly tormenting. 

This has continued for several months, and the constant 
struggle would be abominable, were there not a vague hope 
that perhaps this is leading to«some fine series of months, 
fecund in work, calm, mature, which will open new horizons, 
and then — 

I recall that two or three years ago the fortunate Breslau 
passed through torments like mine. For whole months she 
could succeed in nothing, and I have seen her pass through 
horrible days, when she was ready to take to sculpture in 
despair. 

Monday, February 27th. — After a thousand agonies I have 
destroyed my picture. The gamins would not pose. Charging 
these failures to my incapacity, I kept making new beginnings, 
until finally — as very fortunately these frightful monsters 
moved, laughed, shouted, and fought— I am making a genuine 
study, so as to be no longer tortured by pictures. Everything 



622 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I undertook, at the end of twenty-four hours, became blurry, 
or untrue, or common-place, or bungling, or pretentious, after 
having pleased me greatly in the first place. Besides, it is 
better to make simple studies. I am at such a critical point 
and have lost so much time — Biarritz, my illness, and a 
month here already! 

If I had not rushed here, like a fool, after pictures, or, rather, 
if I had not been half-stunned by Wolff's few lines on Breslau! 
There is only one way to regain my feet, and that is to go back 
to things that will be pronounced very good; but we shall 
see! 

Paris, Tuesday, April 20th. — Well, it is not as it was after 
Spain. I am not delighted to see Paris again — simply con- 
tent; besides, I can not analyze any of my sentiments. I am 
so uneasy about my work. I tremble to think what people 
may say, and I am crushed by the remembrance of Breslau, 
who is treated by the public like an artist of established repu- 
tation. I went to Julian's yesterday (we arrived in Paris yes- 
terday morning), and he no longer treats me as a serious 
worker. Brilliant, yes, but with no persistence, with no will 
power. He desired more; he hoped for something else. All this, 
in casual talk, pained me greatly. I am waiting for him to see 
the work I did at Nice, and I no longer hope for anything 
favorable. 

I have made a life-size picture of Th6rese, a child of six, 
going after fodder, in a farm lane; then an old man, life-size 
also, at his window, beside a pot of red carnations; then a 
boy carrying a bag, half life-size; a landscape on a 12-inch 
canvas; another on a 4-inch canvas; three marines, five or 
six little studies, and some charcoal drawings, besides two 
unfinished pastels, and some pen-and-ink drawings in my 
album. 

I do not know whether they are good or horrible, and all 
these fears make me feel as if fire were passing over the whole 
surface of my body. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 623 

Saturday, April 22a 7 . — What is necessary to my very exist- 
ence is to have it acknowledged that I possess great talent. 
I never shall be happy like all the world. As Balzac wrote: 
" To be celebrated and to be loved, that is happiness!" And yet, 
to be loved is only an accessory, or, rather, the natural result 
of being celebrated. Breslau is thin, crooked, faded, but her 
face is interesting. She has no grace, and is single and alone. 

She will not become a woman of any importance unless 
she has genius. I, with her talent, would be the most famous 
person in Paris; but this must come. In my insane desire for 
this to happen, I seem to see a hope that it will happen. 

After my long absence and my interrupted work, without 
advice and encouragement, I seem lost. I feel as if I had 
been in China. I am no longer in the swim. 

Ah! I think that I love nothing like painting, which, in my 
eyes, would give me all other happiness! False vocation, 
false craving, false hope! This morning I went to the Louvre 
— but stop! I calumniate myself. One must have power to 
produce when one is the observer that I am. Formerly, I had 
the confidence of ignorance, but for some time my eyes have 
been opening. This morning it was the Paul Veronese's tower 
that appeared to me in all its splendor, and all its glory — that 
unheard-of richness of tones! How can it be explained that 
until now these splendors have appeared to me large, dingy, 
gray, and flat canvases? What I did not see once I see now. 
The celebrated pictures, which I used to look at with respect 
only, now charm and hold me. I feel their delicacy of col- 
oring; I appreciate coloring at last! 

I turned back twice to look at a landscape by Ruysdael. A 
few months ago I saw in it nothing of what I saw this morn- 
ing. The atmosphere and the feeling of space are wonder- 
fully delineated. In short, it is not painting; it is living 
nature. So, since I see all these beauties that I did not see 
before, it is because my eyes have become experienced. Per- 
haps the same phenomena may happen to my hand, 



624 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I do not mean to say that before I went to Spain I was 
absolutely without appreciation, but it is certain that that 
journey brushed away a film from my eyes. Well, now I 
must work in the studio; I have done enough independent 
things to limber my hand for the time being; at present I 
must attain execution of the first order and paint a picture. 

Sunday, April 23a 7 . — I have passed some minutes examining 
my studies I made at Nice. The bare thought that some- 
thing good may be found among them sends a shiver down 
my back. Tony, Julian, Bastien, in themselves, appear to me 
so mean and small beside the immense effect that their words 
can produce upon me! Real anxieties and real joys are 
connected only with fame. Fame; what a glorious word! 

My life is not what I would make it. Monday I shall go 
to the studio to break myself in again. It seems as if I had 
been idle for months, and that a misfortune had happened 
to me. 

I have not done the best I could; I was in a hurry to get 
back to Paris. My thoughts pass through my head like great 
clouds, which overwhelm me with anguish, which make me 
cold, and cause, as it were, tongues of fire to impale me ten 
times an hour. 

The sky is gray and stormy; it rains, and there is a pierc- 
ing wind. The weather outside is in consonance with my own 
state of mind — a physical effect, then! 

But I had something else to say; something concerning 
love, suggested by a book I read this morning. 

Love is the eternal subject. To allow yourself to be loved 
by a man, who is enough inferior to you to consider you a 
goddess descended from the sky, would have a certain charm. 
To know that by a look you can bestow the utmost felicity; 
there is a charitable side to this which flatters the generosity 
you may possess. 

Tuesday, April 2$th. — My own anxiety was hard enough to 
endure, and I did not need to see the anxious faces of my 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 025 

family watching me to see if I felt any emotion. In sum, this 
is what Tony said: The picture of Dina, in costume, was 
very good, very good; the man by the sea-side, very good also; 
and the head of Therese not at all bad, only the colors of the 
landscape do not blend well with those of her dress. The 
small landscape is very good; the clothes of the old man are 
very good, the old man is well drawn, but not simple enough 
and not enough — something else; to sum up, there is much 
good in what I have done. Well, do you say, you ought to be 
satisfied? Ah! he also added that I must make a very careful 
study, and that he will watch me very attentively, and that he 
is at my disposal whenever I call him. Well, afterward they 
gave him a cup of bouillon in the salon, fishing for a rhapsody 
on my immense talent; only, as he was due at the Salon com- 
mittee at 5 o'clock (that is the reason that he selected to-day 
to come here, having to go to the Salon, which is close at 
hand), so, as he was in a great hurry, he limited himself to 
pitiful thanks for the glass of Marsala and the bouillon, and 
took a very hasty leave. Then my aunt said that he was an imbe- 
cile and had no sense; mamma added that it was truly astonish- 
ing that I should be so broken down at his treatment. It is true 
that I looked worried on account of their curious anxiety. I 
suppose all mothers are thus; but it is none the less a bore. In 
short, I am excited enough to cry, and come to pour out here 
the overflow of this poor heart. 

I ought to be satisfied. No, I am almost broken down, and 
mamma is almost right. This is not enough; I wanted that man 
to say to me — to save me from becoming disheartened he should 
have said: Well and good! success this time; this is excellent; 
you are as strong as Breslau, and have more talent than she. 

Anything short of the aforesaid words could not satisfy me 
or even lift me from the despair in which I have been plunged 
for a year on account of my painting. He said truly about the 
man on the sea-shore, that it was very good, very good; and he 
also said that the blending of the colors was very good ; and also 

40 



620 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the little landscape, which he looked at several times; also the 
pastel of Dina, and my own, which is good in part, and the 
head of Therese, which is not at all bad. Well, what do I ask 
then? I do not know — and first, he was in too much of a 
hurry, it seemed to me that he did not look enough. I wanted 
him to praise to the skies my extraordinary talent. 

How unsatisfactory to me all this good was, as I still have on 
my mind the very good accorded Breslau for a little picture 
that she painted in Brittany two years ago. 

And although he said the same thing to me for my little 
picture painted at Nice, it seems to me that it does not mean 
as much, Why? Before my departure for Nice, he said to 
me that Breslau's fisherwoman was very good. At present, 
when that same fisherwoman is received with the number three, 
he tells me simply that it is not bad. In short, I am not satis- 
fied. Why? First, because my family founded such extraor- 
dinary hopes on these few studies, that the wildest compli- 
ments alone were capable of satisfying them, and then I am 
nervous, the effect of spring. When I am over-excited this 
way, my arms burn above my elbows; this is queer. Learned 
doctors, explain! 

Saturday, April 29th. — I am not an artist. I have drawn 
without effort as I have done everything, but I can not — 
However, when I was a child three years old, I drew profiles 
with chalk on the whist tables, and afterward, and always 
(one would have been certain that I was cut out for an artist), 
and you see the result! But I have nothing to say, only time 
is flying and my hands are idle. Summing up the account, 
what has happened? Why, nothing — Breslau has been work- 
ing longer than I, almost twice as long — admit - that I am as 
talented as she, and things are taking their natural course; 
however, I have been painting for three years! but she has 
been painting for over five years! 

Sunday, April 30th. — This morning I went to the private 
view with Villevieille, Alice, and Webb. I was dressed very 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 627 

becomingly in black. I amused myself noting that I -was 
tolerably well acquainted with all the best people in Paris. Caro- 
lus Duran came to talk to me — that very amiable man is a fas- 
cinator. Breslau's picture is hung on the top row and the effect 
is deplorable. I was so uncomfortable over the success I 
expected she would have that this is a great relief; I make no 
attempt to deny it. Her woe-begone friends came to ask my 
opinion; and I told them that it was not right, and that they 
ought to have given her a better place. 

The culmination of this brilliant day was my conversation 
with Julian, in which he accused me of throwing myself away, 
and not fulfilling the magnificent promises, etc. In fact, he 
thinks me drowned, and I think so too, and we are going to try 
to fish me up. I told him that I was well aware of this deplora- 
ble state; that it fills me with despair, and that I think myself 
done for. He reminded me how good my work used to be, 
and that a sketch he has at his studio attracts everybody's 
attention. Oh, my God! help me out of this! help me out of 
this! I was going to say that God was good to me, in per- 
mitting me to be not altogether crushed by Breslau, at least 
for to-day. In a word, I do not know how to express myself 
to prevent this appearing like an unworthy sentiment. If the 
picture had been as I imagined, it would have been the end of 
me, considering the pitiful state my work is in at present. I 
did not, for an instant, hope that her picture would be judged 
a bad one; that would have been ignoble; but I trembled so, 
lest I should witness a formidable success. I had such emo- 
tions when I opened the newspapers, that perhaps God took 
pity on me. 

Wednesday, May gth. — Tony and Julian dined here. I 
arrayed myself in a fantastic toilet and the evening was pro- 
longed until half-past n. Julian is very droll after the 
champagne, and Tony very agreeable, very sober, very calm, 
with his handsome, tired face. I would like to rouse some 
genuine feeling in this man with his tender and melancholy 



628 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

air. I can not imagine him carried away by violent senti- 
ments; he is logical and calm, and if affairs of the heart were 
in question, he would give you a precise demonstration of the 
tender sentiment itself and its causes, as if he were explaining 
the qualities of a picture. But take him all together, and to 
sum up, as he says, he is charming. 

The " Portrait of a Young Girl " by Sargent, haunts me; it 
is ravishing. It is an exquisite work that one would gladly 
put in a gallery with pictures of Van Dyck and Velasquez. 

Saturday, May 20th. — Ah! I am discouraged! What have I 
done since I have been in Paris? I am no longer even eccen- 
tric — and in Italy, what did I do? Once I allowed myself to 
be kissed on the sly by that stupid A — . Well, what of it? Was 
it distasteful to me? But plenty of girls have done the same, 
and still do it, and no one is horrified. I assure you that when 
scraps of tattle come to me of what people say of us and of 
me, I feel stupefied, it sounds so preposterous. 

The lawsuit has been disastrous, but it is finished. Now it 
is different, it is I whom they attack; and when very quiet and 
alone in my room, in the midst of my books, after having 
worked eight or ten hours, I think of what may be said of me; 
that I am morally dragged from this sepulchral place, dis- 
robed, criticised, disfigured, that thoughts and actions are 
attributed to me — They put me down as twenty-five years old, 
and say that I am permitted a compromising independence, 
which is absolutely false. Ah, well! it makes me miserable and 
I want to cry. 

Yesterday we went to the Salon with G — , Bastien's brother, 
and Beaumetz. Bastien-Lepage is going to paint a picture, 
representing a little peasant looking at a rainbow. I pre- 
dict that it will be sublime. What talent, what talent! 

Monday, May 22d. — I believe that I shall never love — but 
one alone — and he, it is probable, will never love me. Julian 
is right; to revenge myself, I must have an overwhelming 
superiority — make an exalted alliance with one of this world's 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 629 

grandees, both rich and celebrated. This would be fine! or 
else have talent like Bastien-Lepage which would make all 
Paris turn their heads when I passed. I am charming; I talk 
as if this could happen to me. Oh, my God, my God, decree 
that I may have my revenge! I will be so good to all who 
suffer. 

Thursday, May 2$tk. — This morning we went to Carolus 
Duran's. What an astonishing and charming person! People 
laugh at him a little because he does everything. What differ- 
ence does that make? He is a good shot, rides horseback, 
dances, plays the piano, the organ, and the guitar, and sings. 
They say he dances badly, but he does all the rest with an 
infinite grace. He believes himself Spanish and Velasquez-like. 
His personal appearance is very seductive, his conversation 
is absorbing, and through and through he is such a good 
fellow, is so well satisfied with himself, so frank and happy 
in his admiration of his own person, that one takes no offense 
at him — quite the contrary. And if you sometimes laugh at 
him, you are conquered all the same. Especially when you 
think of all those who have great pretensions without possess- 
ing a quarter of his attainments. 

He considers himself far above the common herd, but put 
yourself in his place; who would not have his head -turned a 
little? 

This morning, the studio was full of people; the light, 
coming from above, gave something of a mellowed look to this 
very modern studio; the visitors wore a solemn and admiring 
air, and Carolus played the master with all the assumed 
airs and graces of Faure, in " Don Juan " or " Rigoletto "; 
he went from group to group with his mustache curled, his 
beard pointed, his hair carefully mussed, and from time to 
time he sought his desk to jot something down with a hag- 
gard look and a rubbing of his forehead with his hand, 
as if his brain were throbbing with brilliant ideas. He is 
affected, of course; but I am always charmed when one 



630 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

carves out for himself an interesting personality which makes 
you think of the departed age of romance. This melange 
of music, the brush, and the sword is very interesting, and if, 
at the present time, it causes a disposition to laugh, so much 
the worse for those who laugh! Carolus Duran is right; the 
more so, as his talent justifies his posing and his pretensions. 

And besides, people say that he is very successful with 
women. 

He murmurs common-place compliments which please them. 

"What did you find handsome at the Salon the other day?" 
I asked him. 

" You were there, what else could one look at." 

Or, as I complained of painting. 

" Ah! art is terrible! You want to have it at your feet like 
men prostrated in the dust. Well, no! it resists you and you 
adore it." 

True, he is a poser, a mountebank, whatever you will! But 
I do not hide the fact that I hold colorless people in horror, 
and so much the worse for those who see only the comic side 
of these exceptional natures all at once harlequins, posturers, 
and charming; you will hold up to my admiration, perhaps, 
men of superior talents who remain modest and quiet — ah! 
so much the worse for them and for us! 

When heaven endows you with all gifts, you are an incom- 
plete being if you stay still in your corner instead of taking 
advantage of your real value to play the harlequin a little, 
as the vulgar imbeciles say. 

Friday, May 26th. — The way the prizes have been awarded 
is nauseating; among those who really deserved one, however, 
was Zilhafdt. 

But the idea that prizes were awarded to certain other people 
makes the heart bleed and fills you with anger! It would 
seem that artists ought to be more conscientious and more 
honest than other people. But this is by no means the case, 
I find, and it grieves me to the core. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 631 

Sunday, May 2W1. — The Duchess of Fitz-James came to 
say that she would present us at her daughter-in-law's house 
in the evening. They gave a ball; mamma assures me that the 
lady is most amiable. They see each other tolerably fre- 
quently, but I do not know much about her. So we called for 
her, and went together. 

It was of the greatest possible elegance; genuine society, 
genuine young girls, charming and fresh; genuine toilets. 
The old duchess has a large number of nephews and grand- 
children. The names which I heard were among the best 
known and most aristocratic in Paris, and the few people that 
I knew moved in the highest circles. As for me, though 
enchanted to find myself in that salon, I thought all the time 
about a pastel, which I had done in the morning, and which I 
was afraid was poor. 

Besides, one can not go into society that way. I should need 
at least two months of it before I began to enjoy it. But at 
bottom do you think that this amuses me? It is tolerably 
stupid, hollow, and colorless! And to think that there are 
people who only live for this! I wish for it but rarely; just 
enough to be in the swim, like celebrated men, for example, 
who only go there for relaxation; enough, however, to avoid 
the appearance of a Hottentot or inhabitant of the moon. 

Monday, May 29th. — Yesterday we went to the Bois with 
Adeline, who says that we are launched in the most aristo- 
cratic society of Paris, and to-day we called on the queen, the 
two Duchesses Fitz-James, the Countess de Turenne, Madame 
de Briey, and lastly, on the American lady. 

I saw Julian this morning, he finds my large pastel of Dina 
very good. 

But the trouble is about a large picture for next year; my 
idea does not seem to take hold of Julian, who is a man about 
town, incapable of entering into the spirit of it. I am very 
much absorbed by it and dare not say so, for people of talent 
only are permitted to be absorbed by, and enthusiastic over, a 



632 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

subject. With me, it is pretentious and ridiculous. I had 
thought of an episode in the carnival, but I have given that 
up. It would be only a display of color. I know exactly 
what I want to paint, and the subject has taken hold of both 
my heart and my brain. I first thought of it nearly two years 
ago. I do not know if I shall be far enough advanced this 
winter to do it well. Well, more is the pity, it will be a 
mediocre piece of painting, but it will have all the other qualities 
of truth, emotion, and sentiment. You can not do a thing 
badly that fills your soul, especially when you draw well — It is 
after Joseph of Arimathea has enshrouded the body of Jesus 
and the stone has been rolled before the sepulchre; the crowd 
has departed, night is falling, and Mary Magdalen and the 
other Mary remain alone seated before the sepulchre. 

It is one of the most impressive moments in the sublime 
drama, and one of those which have been the least used by 
artists. 

It possesses grandeur, simplicity, something awe-inspiring, 
touching, and human — an indescribable terrible calm; the 
exhaustion of grief in the two poor women. The physical 
side remains to be studied. 

Saturday, June $d. — The pictures have been passed upon; 
it is a pleasantry, there are only two in the first class, and they 
the worst; no medals. I think the professors are making fun 
of us. 

From 3 to 5 we begged for charity on the grand staircase 
of the Salon. I was charming in a pale rose Louis XV. dress 
of uncut velvet. There was a good turn-out of society, Queen 
Isabella was very gracious to me. I saw many of my friends, 
and the sympathetic American lady gave me 20 francs. Many 
strangers also contributed. When I am not worried I have 
some beauty that attracts people. Three young artists, who 
had passed at a tolerably rapid pace, consulted after looking 
at me, and one of them came back to give me 40 sous! This 
was tolerably handsome, for people avoid the beggars and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. G33 

hurry as fast as their legs will carry them, obliged as they are 
to pass between their ranks. At 5 o'clock, we went to the 
duchess; she took us to the Vicomtesse de Janze, who has a 
house filled with marvels, and who is one of the queens of 
Paris, as Balzac says. And afterward to the Bois with the 
Duchess of Fitz-James and her grand-daughter, Mademoiselle 
de Charette. 

Thursday, June St/i. — It is after 4 o'clock, it is broad day- 
light; I close the blinds hermetically to create an artificial 
night while the blue blouses of the workmen are passing in the 
street, going to their work already. Poor people! It is before 
5 o'clock in the morning, and it rains; these unfortunates suffer, 
and we whimper over our misfortunes in laces from Doucet's. 
Look at me writing a common-place phrase, a banality. Each 
one in his own sphere suffers and complains, and each one 
has good reason for it. I, at the present moment, do not 
complain of anything; for, if I have no talent it is nobody's 
fault. I only complain of unjust, unnatural, detestable things, 
like much in the past, and in the present also, although this 
isolation may be a blessing which, perhaps, will bring me to 
fame. Happy Carolus Duran, who is celebrated and believes 
himself the most sublime artist of all time! 
I wish to go to Brittany and work there. 

Wednesday, June 20th.— Well! nothing new. A few calls 
exchanged and painting — and Spain. Ah, Spain! A volume 
of Theophile Gautier is the cause of all this. Is it possible? 
What! Have I passed through Toledo, Burgos, Cordova, 
Seville, Granada? Granada! I have run through those places 
whose names, even, it is an excitement to pronounce! It is a 
fever! Oh, to return there! To see those marvels again! To 
return alone or with people who can sympathize with me! 
I suffered enough when I went there with my family! Oh, 
poetry! Oh, painting! Oh, Spain! Ah! how short is life! Ah! 
how unhappy we are to live so little! For to live in Paris is 
only the point of departure for everything. But to make 



634 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

these sublime, artistic journeys! Six months in Spain, in 
Italy! Italy, sacred soil; divine, incomparable Rome! it takes 
away my reason. 

Ah! how women are to be pitied; men are free, at least. 
They have absolute independence in ordinary life, liberty to 
come and go, to start out, to dine at ar restaurant or at home, 
to go on foot to the Bois or to a cafe; that liberty is the half 
of talent and three-quarters of ordinary happiness. 

But, you will say, superior woman that you are, give your- 
self that liberty! 

It is impossible, for the woman who emancipates herself thus 
- — the young and pretty woman, be it understood — almost has 
the finger pointed at her, she becomes singular, commented 
on, insulted, and consequently still less free than before she 
shocked idiotic custom. 

So there is nothing to do but deplore my sex and return to 
dreams of Italy and Spain. Granada! gigantic Arabs, pure 
sky, brooks, rose laurels, sun, shadow, peace, calm, harmony, 
and poetry! 

Wednesday, June 21st — It is all scratched out, and I have 
given away the canvas, in fact, so as not to see it. This 
almost kills me! Oh, painting, I can not attain unto thee! 

But as soon as I have destroyed what I have finished, I feel 
relieved, free, and ready to begin again. The studio in which- 
I have worked was lent to Mademoiselle Loshooths by an 
American, named Chadwick, who returned to-day, and we have 
restored to him his sanctum. 

Thursday, June 22d. — The house at No. 30 Rue Ampere 
pleased me so much that I was wild over it, and # as we have 
engaged an apartment already, I was maddened not to be able 
to rent the house, which appeared to promise me complete 
happiness. 

A whole story to myself with a studio and balcony. My 
mother and aunt on the first story and the salons below. 
There is a garden in which I could paint out of doors without 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 635 

leaving home. In a word, it was too good, I felt sure that no 
such good luck was in store for me. I was ready to pay 5,000 
francs forfeit to the owner of the apartment. Well, it is done, 
and without forfeit; we can have the house, and behold me 
entirely cooled off. I find that it is far off, that the studio is 
not so large as I thought, that it is dear, and I am grieved, 
very much grieved to leave the Champs Elysees. Remark that, 
in living there, I had but one dream, the Avenue de Villiers and 
the artistic neighborhoods and the acquaintance of the artists. 
At present, that part of my dreams is realized. I am racked by 
the idea that if I get medals I shall owe them to my friends. 
And besides, there is this also: I have made a fuss because I 
had nobody to whom to show my drawings and pictures; in a 
word, I will say it, because my talent was unknown to the artists ; 
at present, here are the artists but there is nothing more to 
show them. At 5 this evening we went to see the sketches of 
Bastien-Lepage, who is in London, but his brother Emile did 
the honors of the studio for us. I took Brisbane and L — , 
which resulted in a delightful hour, laughing, chatting, mak- 
ing sketches, and everything so befitting, so pleasant! If I 
had heard all this of Breslau, I should have bewailed myself 
and envied her her surroundings. Well, I have what I wanted, 
does that give me talent? 

Friday, June 23d. — At 5 o'clock L — , Dina, and I were at 
Emile Bastien's, who posed for us. I painted him on a little 
panel ten or twelve inches square, I think. 

I painted on the real Bastien'sown palette, with his colors, his 
brush, in his studio, and with his brother for model. 

But it is a fancy, childishness, superstition; the little Swede 
wanted to touch his palette. I kept some of his dried colors, 
and my hand trembled, and we laughed. 

Saturday, June 24th. — It is accomplished. We have the 
house. I am heart-broken at leaving the Champs Elysees, with- 
out considering that the force of habit produces the effect of 
bankruptcy upon me. . However, the house consists of a large 



636 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

basement containing the kitchen and a billiard-room. The 
ground floor raised a dozen steps, contains a vestibule from 
which you enter through a handsome glazed door into an ante- 
room containing the staircase leading to the upper floors; at 
the right is a room which is made into a salon by an archway 
pierced into a little room opening out on the garden; there are 
also a dining-room and a garden, which carriages can enter, 
and reached by steps from the salon and from the dining- 
room. 

On the first floor there are five chambers with dressing- 
rooms and a bath-room. As for the second floor, it is mine, 
and consists of an ante-room, two chambers, a library, a studio, 
and a store-room. The studio and the library are united by a 
very large archway, which gives a space 40 feet long and 
22 feet in width. 

The light is superb, coming from three sides and from above; 
in a word, for a rented house, nothing could be imagined to 
suit me better. But then it seems to me that it is out of the 
way, although it is within ten minutes' carriage-ride of the 
Madeleine by the Boulevard Malesherbes. It is No. 30 Rue 
Ampere, at the corner of Rue Bremontier, and the house can 
be seen from the Avenue de Villiers. 

But what would you have? And then, this moving is most 
enervating. And think of leaving this apartment where I have 
been so quiet! 

Ah! more is the pity! it is done; yes, signed at the notary's 
office. 

Friday, June 301/1. — I can not get settled. I am at sea. 
I do nothing! - That is the misfortune! The other day, with 
Julian, we talked about this. He says that I have ceased to 
do anything for a year and a half; now and then a month of 
work by fits and starts, then nothing! 

I have no continuity, no line of conduct, no real energy! It 
is true, I have wandered. I ought to have carved out my work, 
a study each week, and, instead of that, I try a score of things, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 637 

and when a subject pleases me, I am discouraged because I 
am not in condition to execute it. I have tried to return to 
class work and could not. Shall I be able to work alone? I 
am perplexed; I do not know where to go or what to do, and 
I lack the force to make a simple study; I must always under- 
take too much, and, as it does not turn out well, I fall into 
despair. And at present I am in a nervous state. Besides, 
I never shall paint! I have never, never, never been able to 
paint a bit well! Here are three years that I have painted; I 
have lost half of them, I admit, but that makes no difference. 
In the end I am out of breath; I must have the courage, the 
will to restore myself, that will come gradually. I am going 
to return — No, some great stroke would be necessary to 
put me at flood-tide, and I fear that this great stroke can be 
but a succession of patient efforts. But then comes this terri- 
ble convicton that I shall not be able; that I shall not paint. 

Then model? 

" You will return to painting, all the same, but still more 
weakened." 

And what then? Then it were better to die. 

Wednesday, July 12th. — I am arranging my famous picture, 
which is going to be very difficult to execute. I must find a 
landscape as near as possible like the one I imagine, and the 
tomb hollowed out in the rock. I wish I could do it near 
Paris, at Capri, it is altogether the Orient, a rock, and not so 
far away. But a real tomb would be essential. There must be 
some in Algeria, and above all, in Jerusalem — some Jewish 
tomb hollowed in the rock. And models? There I should 
have magnificent ones with natural costumes. Julian says 
that it is folly. He understands, he says, why the masters — 
those who know everything — should go to paint their pictures 
on the ground, for they go to seek the only thing they lack, 
local color, the naked truth; while I, in whom so much is 
lacking! — However, it seems to me that I must seek just that, 
since I could have success only by force of absolute truth. 



638 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Why, then, does he wish me to deny myself this local color, I 
who can have nothing else, or almost nothing? What will this 
picture signify if it is painted at St. Germain, with Jews from 
the Batignolles in made-up costumes? While there, I shall find 
vestments that are worn, in actual use, and genuine, and those 
tones found by chance and giving effects that can not be made 
to order. But time will be lost — in the trip, a fortnight; and a 
fortnight to get settled; total, a month. I shall start the 15th 
of September, I shall arrive on the 2 2d; the 10th of October 
I can begin; I give myself three months — a week to put 
things in position and draw, and a week for preparation. The 
24th of October I shall begin to paint, and on the 1st of 
November the principal head will be finished. The body will 
occupy until the 10th of November. On the nth I shall begin 
the other figure, which will take ten days. The 27th, 
28th, 29th, and 30th of November will be occupied in painting 
the foreground. I allow myself ten days more for the back- 
ground, which brings me to the 10th of December. Note that 
I have calculated for the whole work nearly double the time it 
is likely I shall spend upon it. 

Tuesday, July 2$th. — We had a charming evening, with 
everybody feeling at home; with quiet and interesting conver- 
sation, tinted, as it were, by serious and ail-pervading music; 
only, nobody spoke to me of art. Fortunately, before dinner, 
Julian went up to the studio to take another look at the 
sketches, and the large panel, on which I have blocked out 
the face in charcoal and pastel. 

"Is this what you call looking for a subject for your 
picture?" 

"Yes, by all means, for this pleases me; while I could not 
interest myself in last year's subject, which was meaningless 
to me." 

Oh, if I really could do it!!! Julian enters entirely into my 
idea. I did not think (and I was very wrong) that he com- 
prehended so profoundly the beauty of the scene. Yes, it is 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 639 

true. Out of it one ought to make something terrible in its 
calm; and desolate, profoundly desolate. It is the end of 
everything; the woman who is there is more than the expres- 
sion of grief — she is the embodiment of an immense, complete, 
and dreadful drama. It is the stupor of a soul to which noth- 
ing remains, and considering the antecedents of the woman, 
there must be something so humane, so interesting, so grand, 
and so striking about her, that it will give you the impression 
of a wind blowing across your hair. 

And I shall not do it well, although it depends upon my self 2 
It is something that I can create with my hands, and my 
impassioned, tenacious, inflexible will would not suffice? The 
ardent, mad desire to impart the emotion which I feel would 
not suffice? Come, now! How can I doubt it? It is something 
that fills my head, my heart, my soul, and my eyes; and shall I 
not triumph over material difficulties? I feel capable of every- 
thing. There is only the chance of illness — I pray God daily 
that this may not happen. 

Will my hand be impotent to express that which my head 

WILLS? 

Ah! my God, I fall on my knees and supplicate Thee not to 
oppose this happiness. It is in all humility, prostrate in the 
dust, that I supplicate Thee to — not indeed aid me — but 
deign only that I may be permitted to work without too many 
obstacles. 

Thursday, July 2jth. — July 28th. — July 29th. — It seems to 
me, however, that it is impossible to paint this picture 
entirely out of doors! The effect is not full day, and the twi- 
light hardly lasts an hour. Therefore, I shall not be able to 
copy, as is done in ordinary pictures, as Bastien-Lepage does, 
and all do who work in the open air. Ah! I am running 
against too great difficulties. Well, we shall see! I shall paint 
it in Algeria as well as I can, and then, if some things have to 
be done over again, or even if it has all to be done anew, I 
shall have learned how to do it, at all events. 



640 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Sunday, July $oth. — Monday, July $\st. — Robert-Fleury 
came this evening, and we had a conference regarding the pic- 
ture, and in regard to work in general. I do not work the 
right way. For two years I have had no continuity in my 
ideas, and hence it never happens that I completely finish a 
study. That is true. He said so to prove to me that I made 
all possible progress, considering the way in which I work, and 
that the young people of the studio work more, and to better 
purpose. Nothing tells like tenacity and continuity, while a 
good week, and then nothing, does not amount to much; does 
not produce progress. But it is true I was ill, traveling, and 
without a studio. At present, everything goes well, and if I 
do not persevere it will be a proof that I am good for nothing. 

The idea of the picture is good, and I shall execute it well. 
The painting of this week is done with freedom, but I tell you, 
that, to dispel my despair, he should have praised me more 
highly, said that I was as talented as — someone very talented— 
that I can do whatever' I choose. And he tells me when I 
complain, that it is insanity, and that he never has seen a per- 
son do more in so short a time. Four years! Theri he said 
that the most gifted and most fortunate do not achieve suc- 
cess under seven, eight, or ten years. Ah! it is atrocious! 

There are moments when I could batter my brains out! 
Rhetoric furnishes no relief. I must produce something that 
will make people start with astonishment, nothing else will 
give me peace. 

Monday, August jt/i. — The street! coming back from Robert- 
Fleury's we drove by the avenues which surround the Arc de 
Triomphe, it was toward half -past 6 of a summer evening; 
there were porters, children, running waiters, workmen, and 
women; all these at the doors, on the public benches, or chat- 
ting before the wine-shops. 

What admirable subjects for pictures! Altogether admi- 
rable! Far be it from me, of all things, to aim at a parody of the 
actual; let vulgarians do that; but in the every-day life of the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 641 

streets are to be found capital subjects. The greatest masters 
are only great through their fidelity to truth. 

I am struck with wonder at all that is to be found in the 
street, and those who sneer at what they call naturalism do not 
know what it is, they are imbeciles. The thing is to catch 
nature in the act, to know how to select and to catch her. To 
know how to select is what makes the artist. 

My portrait will be undeniably common-place. I am seated 
in a large arm-chair, in a dress of white muslin, half low neck. 
The pose is tolerably good. I appear to be talking, it is full 
face. It is very ordinary. 

I return to the street. That mine could be worked. I do 
not want to touch the country. Bastien reigns sovereign there; 
but for the street there has been yet no — Bastien. And in our 
garden I could paint nearly everything. 

Tuesday, August 8tA. — My head is a little troubled by 
Daudet's " Kings in Exile;" I have read it already, but I am 
beginning it again. It contains ravishing pages, a delicacy of 
analysis and a clearness of expression that delight me, and 
things which make me weep — matters of sentiment. 

The life that I lead is no life at all; when I do not work, 
there is nothing that I care for;, while painting, I imagine I am 
weaving my happiness; when I am idle, everything turns into 
night and silence. 

Wednesday, August gt/z. — I had a sitting; afterward Robert- 
Fleury came to dinner. I showed him a sketch made this 
morning — a ragpicker whom I stopped on her round. Tony 
found it good. It is before me now. Tony says not to touch 
it, although it is barely blocked out, and to make another very 
much worked up. When, by chance, I do something passable, 
I feel the delight of a child. 

I am in love with myself. 

Thursday, August iot/1. — That poor Tony rubbed out my left 
hand at the end of the sitting. It is of no avail to be an 
academician and to have received the medal of honor, one is 
41 



642 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

none the less liable to mistakes; and he wishes to have his 
first effort something very fine; he told me that he nearly had 
the nightmare and a sick headache, because he could not make 
it a success without painting some of it over. 

Well, how I sympathize with these troubles that I know so 
well, and of which one has no idea without experience! 

He writes a journal every evening as I do; what do you 
suppose he finds to say about me? He thinks that Breslau's 
laurels prevent me from sleeping. But he knows how deeply 
I recognize my own incapacity. It is true that now I say my 
picture, and still, that seems to me an assumption! It is only 
while hearing other nullities say, my sketch, my picture, etc., 
that I have dared — and if I consider this a species of imperti- 
nence, it is because I hope some day to have the right to say it, 
and do not wish to cheapen it by a too familiar use. You under- 
stand this, do you not? 

Sunday, August i^th.— It is 3 o'clock in the morning; I can 
not sleep. This, evening I showed Tony a study of a female 
ragpicker, which he pronounced " so so," and a new outline 
of the picture which he called very good. Upon the whole, 
the outline is not new; it is like the very first which I tore 
up and have reproduced. It seems to me that you should 
conceive a thing all at once, above all, something that strikes 
and takes complete possession of you. Now, Robert-Fleury 
is right; this picture is relatively easy to execute; there is 
nothing of what we call detail, since the action happens in a 
half light; the silhouettes stand out from a dark ground. 
Everything, understand, everything consists in seizing well 
the relations between the sky, the figures, and the ground; 
and afterward and above all, to render the poetry of the 
hour, the deep, awful desolation of what has just taken 
place. 

Now, he says that it is found; that the attitudes are pro- 
foundly f tit, poignant; everything consists in rendering this as 
I feel it. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 643 

" If you succeed in finding the exact tones, and the relations 
of the different parts, it will be something entirely beautiful." 

Yes, that is all. On one side a sort of terror, and on the 
other side a frenzy. 

It depends upon myself! 

And then I went to bed at midnight, thinking no more 
about the discussions of the day on naturalism, painting, 
and the street! Thinking only of this picture, which takes 
abnormal proportions in my brain, and once my imagination 
set at work, everything has passed in review. I have worked; 
it is finished. I have sent it in; it is exhibited. And there is 
a crowd before it; emotion chokes my throat; a foolish fear, 
of I know not what; then an extravagant joy succeeds that 
anguish, and as I thought all this, I shivered, and the per- 
spiration started all over me. 

I got up at 3 o'clock. I read and now I write with the 
sketch before me. But, perhaps, I am preparing for myself 
a terrible disappointment. No, since I am sure of nothing, I 
am going to try. Besides, perhaps, it is the two cups of tea 
taken this evening which have prevented me from sleeping — 
Oh, no! 

Tuesday \ August i$th. — May God come to my help! I would 
I had not thought of it and had counted on nothing; the only 
happiness that happens to one comes as a surprise, and not 
when one is expecting it; but I expect nothing. Only the 
picture takes away my sleep. It might be so beautiful! I 
comprehend it so well! 

Thursday, August ijtn. — At the last sitting my artist was in 
search of a subject for a picture, something modern and good; 
and then he wished to have a nude figure in his picture; " only 
it is so difficult to find a beautiful model;" he appears to fore- 
see such insurmountable difficulties. Really, one would say 
that a beautiful nude woman was not to be found in Europe. 

I really believe that Robert-Fleury has a very just opinion of 
me. He believes me to be what I would like to have the 



644 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

world think me — altogether proper; a young girl — a child, 
even — in this sense, that, while I talk like a woman in the full 
possession of her intellectual powers, I am really at heart as 
pure as an angel in heaven. I really think that he respects 
me in the highest acceptation of the term, and if, in my pres- 
ence, he ever should say anything — well, anything free, I 
should be absolutely astounded. In a word, I always say that 
I talk about everything, but there are ways and ways of dis- 
cussing things. There is more than the propriety; there is the 
modesty of language. Perhaps I really talk like a matron, 
but I employ metaphors and carefully-constructed phrases, so 
that, while really saying a thing, I have the air of not touch- 
ing upon it. It is as if, instead of saying my picture, I said, 
the thing which I have made. Never, even with Julian, have 
I used the words — lover, mistress, intrigue; those precise, 
ordinary terms, which make it appear as if you were speaking 
of things with which you were familiar. Of course everybody 
knows about all that sort of thing, but one can glide round 
the subject. If one knew nothing, one would not be interest- 
ing, for there are corners of conversation, where a little malice 
and raillery, in regard to a certain little fellow called Cupid, 
are indispensable. With Robert-Fleury I talk principally on 
art, but, besides — in fact, this leads us to touch upon music and 
literature. 

Well, I see that Tony Robert-Fleury takes my — what shall 
I call it? — enlightenment, in its true sense. That he finds it 
very simple, and that, if I have the frankness not to appear 
stupid, he has the tact never to say as much on the subject as 
I. Now let me add that you can not judge me from this 
journal, in which I am serious, and, ^o to speak, with my rouge 
washed off. When I converse, I appear better. In conversa- 
tion there are certain little airs, half phrases, which mean so 
much! and glances of the eye that express more than words. 

I am foolish and boastful. Here I am believing that this 
academician sees me as I see myself, and consequently, appre- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. G45 

ciates all I intend to convey, as one would say about the play- 
ing of an actress. You are, of course, apt to exaggerate your 
own merits. You attribute good qualities to yourself, even 
when you are totally devoid of them. Well, admitting this, I 
tell you that it is very agreeable to believe yourself appreciated. 
And then, with Robert-Fleury and Julian, I am more open 
than I am with others. I feel myself at home with them, and 
confidence gives me a charm which otherwise I should not 
possess. 

Friday \ August iSt/i. — We did not find Bastien at home; I 
left him a message, and got a glimpse of what he has brought 
back from London. There is a little peddler leaning against 
a curb in the street; you can almost hear the rumble of the 
passing vehicles, and the background is barely indicated; 
but the face! What a wonderful man! 

Oh! what perverse idiots they are who regard him simply 
as a highly-skilled artisan! 

He is a powerful and original artist; he is a poet; he is a 
philosopher; the others are but manufacturers of trash com- 
pared to him. You can look at nothing else when you see his 
painting, because it is as beautiful as nature, as beautiful as 
life. The other day Tony Robert-Fleury was obliged to agree 
with me that it required a great artist to copy nature, and even 
that no one but a great artist is capable of comprehending 
nature, and rendering its beauty. The ideal is in the choice; 
as to the' 'execution, it should be the culmination of what the 
ignorant call naturalism. Paint, if you please, Enguerrand de 
Martigny, or Agnes Sorel; but let their hands, their hair, and 
their eyes be living, natural, and human. The subject matters 
little. The great masters have often painted subjects of their 
own epoch. Doubtless, from all points of view, the modern is 
that which is most interesting, but the true, the only, the valu- 
able naturalism consists in execution. Let it be nature itself, 
and life ; let the eyes speak ! It matters little whether the subject 
be Mademoiselle de la Valliere or Sarah Bernhardt! Doubtless, 



64:6 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

it is more difficult to interest you in old-time subjects, and 
yet, if Bastien-Lepage should paint Mademoiselle de la Valliere, 
or Marie Stuart, all dead and turned to dust and ashes as they 
are, they would live again. We also saw at Bastien's a sketch 
of the little portrait of the elder Coquelin, which is absolutely 
marvelous; the expression is his very own; his hands move, 
his eyes wink; he speaks. 

Saturday, August 19th. — I work in the garden, where I have 
a good view of the grass and trees in the Pare Monceau. 
I am doing a street boy, twelve years old, in blouse and 
apron, seated on a bench, and reading an illustrated paper, 
with his empty basket beside him. One sees this continually 
at the park, and in the streets about here. 

Monday, August 21st. — I should like to scratch out the eyes 
of everybody in the world! I am doing nothing! and time 
passes. For the last four days I have not posed. I began a 
study out of doors, but it rained, and the wind upset every- 
thing. I am doing nothing. 

I tell you that I am becoming insane before this nothing- 
ness! They say that this torment proves my worth! Alas, 
no! It proves that I am intelligent, and see clearly. 

Besides, I have been painting for three years. 

Tuesday, August 2id. — I went to the Temple market with 
Rosalie; and my eyes are still opened wide. It is a marvel- 
ous quarter. I bought some old traps for the s£ud % io; but I 
did nothing but look at the various types of character. Oh, 
the street! But, that is to say, if one knew how to render 
that which one sees! Alas! I have the faculty to see, and I 
am still dazzled by all that I have seen — the attitudes, the gest- 
ures, life taken in the act of living, true living, nature. Oh, to 
take nature by surprise, and know how to reproduce it! 

That is the great problem. Oh, why have I not! That brute 
of a Tony Robert-Fleury said truly, " With your aspirations, 
Mademoiselle, I should do everything in the world to make 
myself a master of the trade." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 647 

And so I came back and made several sketches of things I 
had seen — a bench in the street with several little girls talking 
and playing together — this collection of children's faces is 
exquisite; then a cafe table with two men whose character- 
istic attitudes are engraved on my memory and outlined on 
my canvas, the mistress of the cafe is lounging in the doorway; 
and then, at the Temple, a very blonde young girl, who laughs, 
leaning against her counter, a counter of mortuary wreaths — 
this last can be done in the studio. 

But the two others require the open air. I do not know 
why I relate all this. To-morrow I shall begin to work with 
real, unremitting zeal. 

The things we catch by chance are . like open windows on 
the lives of people, and one divines the life, the character, 
and the occupation of these people. It is admirable; it has a 
definite, palpitating interest! But — 

The imbeciles think that to be " modern," or a realist, it is 
sufficient to paint the first thing that comes to hand without 
arranging it. Do not arrange it but choose, and take it by sur- 
prise; everything is in that. 

Wednesday, August 2^d, — Instead of working well at some 
study, no matter what, I take walks; yes, Mademoiselle takes 
artists' walks and observes! I have gone twice to the orphan 
asylum, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. 

The matron is already my friend. As for the children, on 
my second visit — thanks to a present of bon-bons — they sur- 
rounded me, pressing around my dress like a troupe of delight- 
ful little animals. All those eyes were still confident, innocent, 
and vague, and they all followed me with short steps on 
their uncertain little legs. Then they were seated, and while 
playing, without any great pretense, the most advanced began 
to recite, glancing at me, from time to time, to see the 
effect. 

As soon as I returned I made a sketch [Smite parvulos 
venire ad me) — Jesus and the children. Ah! if I had talent! 



648 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Monday, August 2%th. — There are days when I really believe 
myself to be somebody! Listen! it is impossible that this 
fever, this enthusiasm, this love of what I do, should not be 
destined to develop into something great. It is impossible to 
see and feel nature as I do, without arriving at some good 
result. 

I have drawn the second figure of the picture; then, as 
Madame T — , who came in while I worked, read in a corner, 
I made a small sketch of her. Nothing should ever be 
arranged. No arrangement is equal to the truth of natural- 
ness. High art consists in seizing the proper moment and 
painting what one sees. 

But saturate yourself with this truth, that to copy nature 
rightly you must have genius, and that an ordinary artist can 
never do anything but parody it. 

A skillful workman who copies for the sake of copying pro- 
duces a vulgar work, which the vulgar crowd call realistic, 
and which it is often right to decry. 

It is not a question of painting anything, no matter what, 
and painting it as you see it; after you have seized the feel- 
ing of what you are about to do, the pose is only maintained 
approximately; if you observe the pose too closely, you 
become stiff; the mind must keep the impression of the instant 
in which you saw the thing. It is in this that you recognize 
the artist. 

I have reread a book by Ouida, a woman of no very great 
talent; it is called " Ariadne," and is in English. 

It is a book that is calculated to excite in the highest 
degree; I have been on the point of rereading it twenty times 
in the last three or four years, and I have always recoiled, know- 
ing what agitation it caused me the first time and would cause 
me again. It treats of art and love, and the scene is in Rome; 
three things united, of which one alone is enough to thrill me 
through and through, and love is the least of them. You 
might take love out of the book and enough would remain to 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 649 

set me wild. I have an adoration, a veneration, and a pas- 
sion for Rome that nothing equals. For the Rome of artists 
and poets, the true, has not been even tarnished for me by the 
worldly Rome which made me suffer. I recall only the poetic 
and artistic Rome, which I worship on my bended knees. 

Sculpture is treated of in the book. I am always on the point 
of taking up sculpture;- yesterday evening I could not sleep! 

Oh, divine power of art! Oh, celestial and incomparable 
sentiment which swallows up everything for you! Oh, supreme 
joy which raises you above the earth! It is with a heart 
oppressed and eyes wet with tears, that I prostrate myself 
before God, that He may accord me His protection. 

It is enough to drive me mad; I want to do ten things at 
once. I feel, I believe, I believe, you understand, that I am 
going to do something strong, and my soul flies toward 
unknown heights. Oh, that I may not have another and a 
worse fall! These reactions are terrible, but every experience 
is necessary in life. Days of depression follow hours of exal- 
tation; we suffer during both. I am not enough of a poser, 
however, to say that we suffer equally. 

To arrange nothing! And pictures? Mine! Well, it is 
nearly the same thing, a subject arrests your attention, strikes 
you. It is evident that, at the same instant you represent 
the scene to yourself, you see the picture. 

If your imagination has been struck forcibly, you see it 
almost as quickly as you read or think. 

I am sure that all truly striking pictures have been con- 
ceived thus. 

Outside of this there is nothing but technique, what one 
has learned at the studio. Attempt only that which thrusts 
itself upon you, which torments you and absorbs you. 

Dumas is right; you do not hold your subject, it is your 
subject that holds you. A man who stakes 5 francs at play feels 
the same emotion as a man who stakes 100,000. That is 
why comparative trifles affect me so deeply. 



650 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

No, no! There is within me such a need of transcribing 
my impressions, such a violence of artistic emotions; so many 
confused things crowd into my head that some day I can not 
fail to gloriously realize my conceptions. 

Tuesday, August 2gth. — This book upsets me. Ouida is 
neither Balzac, nor George Sand, nor Dumas; but she has pro- 
duced a book, which, for certain reasons — professional — puts 
me in a fever. She has very correct ideas on art, and opin- 
ions gathered in the studios in Italy, where she has lived. 

There are som'e things which — She says, for example, that 
with true artists, not artisans, the conception is immeasurably 
superior to the power of execution. And then the great 
sculptor, Marix (in the novel), who sees the efforts in model- 
ing of the young heroine, the future woman of genius, says: 
" Let her come and study. She will do everything she wills." 
" Yes," said Tony Robert-Fleury, after a long examination of 
my drawings at the studio, " work, Mademoiselle; you can do 
what you will to do." 

But I have worked, undoubtedly, in the wrong path. Saint- 
Marceaux has remarked it, my drawings are the drawings of a 
sculptor, and I have always loved form above everything. 

I adore color also, but now, after this book, and even before, 
painting appears miserable to me beside sculpture. Besides, 
I ought to hate it as I hate all imitations, all impostures. 

Nothing irritates me like seeing things in relief imitated in 
painting on a canvas necessarily flat and even. What is more 
horrible than pictures of bas reliefs, all the way from high art 
to paper prints? It enrages me as red enrages a bull. A frame 
imitated by painting in certain ceilings, even at the Louvre, 
and the borders in furnished flats which imitate carved wood 
or lace, are both odious! 

But what holds me back? Nothing. I am free. My material 
surroundings are such that nothing is lacking to my artistic 
welfare. A whole story to myself — ante-room, toilet-room, 
chamber, library, studio, with a splendid light, looking out on 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 651 

all sides at will; then a little garden, where I can work. I 
have had a speaking-tube put in, to prevent people from com- 
ing up to incommode me, and to avoid going down frequently. 

What am I doing? A little girl who has put her black skirt 
over her shoulders and holds her umbrella open. I work out 
of doors, and it rains nearly every day. And then, what does 
it signify? What is it compared to a thought in marble? 
What do I make out of my sketch of three years ago (I drew 
it in October, 1879). This subject, " Ariadne," was given us at 
Julian's, and I was possessed with it as with the holy women 
at the sepulchre. Julian and Tony thought that the sentiment 
was good; as for me, I was taken with it as with the present 
picture. Here are three years that I have been on the point 
of turning sculptor, to execute this design. I feel no strength 
before these common-place things. And the terrible " what 
use is it," clips my wings. 

Theseus has fled during the night. Ariadne, finding herself 
alone at dawn, ransacks the island; when at sunrise she 
reaches the extremity of a cliff she sees the vessel like a speck 
on the horizon. Then — that is the moment to seize, but 
difficult to describe; she can go no farther; she can not call; 
the water is there all around her; the vessel is a speck barely 
visible; then she falls on the rock, her head on her right arm, 
in a posture which ought to express all the horror of the aban- 
donment, and of the despair of that woman, thus basely 
deserted. I do not know how to express it, but there are to 
be delineated her rage at her powerlessness, and a supreme 
dejection. You comprehend she is there, on the edge of the 
cliff, exhausted with grief and, I think, impotent rage; there is 
a cessation of action in the whole being, the end of everything. 
That steep rock, that brutal force that fetters the will! 

Yes, too much attention to linear perspective is a mistake; 
too much attention to tones and color is a miserable thing, a 
matter of the trade which little by little absorbs everything, 
leaving no further scope for thought. 



652 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The technical skill of the thinkers and poets in painting is 
of the tenth-rate order. How could I misconstrue this truth 
up to this time, and clamp myself down when I possess such 
unbounded energy? 

Thursday \ August 30th. — I am drawing my " Magdalene/' I 
have an admirable model for her; besides, I saw in my mind's 
eye the head I require, three years ago, and this woman has 
exactly those features, and even that intense, terrible, despair- 
ing expression. 

What charms me in painting are the life, the modernness, and 
the movements of the things one sees. But how shall I express 
it? Outside of that it is desperately difficult, almost impossible 
— it is immovable. 

Nothing in painting has touched me like " Joan of Arc" by 
Bastien-Lepage, for it contains something, I know not what, 
of the mysterious, the extraordinary. A sentiment compre- 
hended by the artist — the perfect, intense expression of a great 
inspiration; in a word, he has sought to do something grand, 
human, inspired, and divine at the same time; what she was, 
in fact, and what no one had comprehended before him, and 
to dare to make another "Joan of Arc!" It is like " The 
Cross of My Mother!" in the old melodramas. 

"Joan of Arcs" are as plentiful as "Ophelias" and " Mar- 
guerites!" He is thinking of painting an "Ophelia"; I am 
sure it will be divine. As for " Marguerites?" I, a weakling, 
have the project of painting one, for there is still room for a 
fine "Marguerite," as there was for a "Joan of Arc." It is 
when the young girl, not the " Marguerite " of the opera in a 
dress of fine cashmere, but the girl from the village or small 
town, simple — do not laugh — human — if you understand you 
will not laugh — when the young girl, until then undisturbed, 
goes into her garden after meeting Faust, and stops, with her 
eyes half lowered, looking into the distance, half astonished, 
half smiling, half pensive, and feels an indescribable some- 
thing, new, unknown, charming, and sad, awake within her. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 653 

Her hands barely hold the prayer-book ready to fall. For 
this, I shall go to a little German city, and I shall paint the 
picture next summer. 

But, good Lord, what have I done all this summer? Nothing! 
Besides, perhaps, my power of execution is not yet equal to 
my power of conception, and " Marguerite " can wait. But my 
picture, it is so beautiful,- so sublime to produce! Would it 
not be better to wait a year more until I know more of the 
technicalities of my art? Ah! I am insane, I should learn 
grammar; I think only of writing poems. I ought to stay 
in the studio every day until 3 o'clock and then model for 
three or four hours. That is the truth. And why do I not 
do it? Why is this world what it is? 

It is true that people less well-taught than I permit them- 
selves to produce pictures, but it is those who have matured, 
and can advance no farther, I am not strong, but I can 
become so, and I have the consolation of being at the begin- 
ning; for I have worked only five years in all. And Robert- 
Fleury, the elder, remained four years at drawing before he 
touched a color; and how many are there who have remained 
two years on casts, and years at drawing? And I draw well 
and I begin to paint not badly; there is life in what I do; it 
speaks, it looks, it lives — then what? Nothing, work! Only 
I do not see my greatness in painting; that is to say, I am 
troubled, I no longer know — I am troubled; Oh, fool! I must 
first know my trade! The thought, the beauty, and the philos- 
ophy of painting are in the execution, in the exact comprehen- 
sion of life. Seize life with tones that speak! and all true 
tones do speak. Anybody or anything exactly reproduced is 
a masterpiece, for it is life itself. 

Sculpture you imagine, then, requires no execution? Well, 
hardly any. Sculpture is something higher, it is creation. 
Yes, the deceptions of lines and color are miserable things to 
worry over; you execute, you are skillful in sculpture, but in a 
different way; you create. 



654 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

There is material work in both; but in sculpture it is 
simpler, nobler, more honest, if I may be allowed the expres- 
sion. Finally, you can put into it that spark, that supreme 
mystery of something that is in you, which is divine, and 
which I can not describe. 

Friday, September \st. — I received a letter from mamma, who 
writes me that the young neighbors have arrived for a two 
months' visit with friends, and that they are going to organize 
great hunts. She is ready to return but, as I had told her to 
give me notice if — She gives me notice. Well, she plunges 
me into an ocean of uncertainty, doubts, and troubles. If I 
go, I shall have no picture in the Salon. If indeed I had 
worked all summer, I should have the need of rest for an excuse; 
but no — Finally, acknowledge that it would be magnificent; 
yes, but nothing is less probable. I should spend four days 
and four nights in railroad travel, and sacrifice the efforts of a 
year to go and endeavor to please some one I have never 
seen and make him marry me. Reason and reflection see 
nothing in this. From the moment I discuss this insanity, I 
am liable to commit it, for I no longer know what I do. I 
will go to a woman who tells fortunes by cards, to Mother 
Jacob, who foretold that I should be very ill. 



For 20 francs I have bought myself happiness for two days 
at least. Mother Jacob predicts delightful things for me, a 
little mixed — but she repeated continually to me that I am 
going to have an immense, brilliant success; the papers will 
speak of the great talent which I shall have — and then, a 
great, happy change, a very fortunate marriage, a great deal 
of money, and travels — grand travels. 

You can say that I am living in a fool's paradise if you 
will, but it has cost me but 20 francs. I shall not go to 
Russia, but to Algeria — for if this is to happen, it will happen 
in Algeria as well as in Russia. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 655 

Good-night; this has done me good, I shall work well 
to-morrow. 

Wednesday, September $th. — It rains every day. It is exas- 
perating to me who wish to work out of doors. I have 
finished a little girl with an umbrella; it is bad, and the little 
girl had an odious face — one of those little street children of 
mine, pretty and cross-grained as possible. 

Then I went to the asylum, and I dare not undertake two 
little boys together; I should be forced to make a bad ending 
of it, a week must be allowed for each head. And if I painted 
the men at the cafe? I do not know; things strike me, and 
then come into play my ill-balanced nature and cross- 
grained mind. In a word, I am a fool, and I know it! 

The elder Dumas says that when one hesitates between two 
things, it is because neither of them is good. And he adds, 
that he never has hesitated more than five minutes in his life. 
He is very lucky, or else a good liar. 

Thursday, September 6th. — I am not an artist; I have 
wished to be, and as I am intelligent, I have learned certain 
things. Then how explain what Robert-Fleury said when I 
began: " You have everything that is not learned." He was 
mistaken. 

But I dabble in art as I do in everything else — with intelli- 
gence and skill, that is all. Then why did I draw heads with 
chalk on the card tables in the country, when I was four years 
old? 

All children draw. But why did I have a continual desire 
to draw sketches from engravings while I was still in Russia; 
and afterward at Nice, at the age of eleven? There my 
teachers discovered extraordinary aptitude in me; this lasted 
two years. Then, always in search of genuine instruction, I 
had two or three other teachers who each gave me two or three 
lessons, that is to say, with whom I worked two or three hours. 

In short, after thinking it over carefully, I find that I 
always had a desire to learn, to make experiments with none 



656 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

to direct them; and then the trip into Italy, Rome. In 
romances it is described how one has the eyes suddenly 
opened to take in beauty; but I confess that my eyes opened 
little by little to see the beauties, that is to say, the qualities 
of paintings. At last I have lost confidence. I have lost 
courage, something is lacking in me. I see the beauty of color; 
but — I can not even say definitely that I do not attain it, for 
I have done one or two things, the coloring and execution of 
which are good, and what I have done once, I can do again; 
that is what encourages me. I think I shall bid farewell to 
my life as artist and painter — especially as painter. I can 
paint not badly, but I think I should do sculpture better. I 
feel things that can not be delineated in color — forms, move- 
ments, expressions. 

Tuesday, September i\th. — I carried my canvases to Julian 
and he is very well satisfied. I must finish " The Angler," which 
may have a little success — yes, finish it, nothing but that. He 
is not exacting, is Father Julian! Then he said that the " Pere 
Jacques" of Bastien was admirably painted; but that there is 
no particular meaning to it, while this angler is real. It is a 
type, you see a great many like that; it is the placid man who 
can sit for hours without a bite; the head stands out from the 
water. If it were well finished! But there are already good 
points to it, it only needs — And then I showed the little 
girl with the umbrella, and then I aired all my ideas on art, of 
which there are scraps in my journal; he says that I have 
changed, that I am literary and " artistic;" but that need not 
matter, of course, so long as it helps me to make progress. 
The thought of my picture makes me rave! 

Monday, Septejnber i8t/i. — As my poor model was sick I 
returned about 5 o'clock, and found Robert-Fleury painting his 
background. We talked again about painting in the open air. 
(If you knew what constant suffering is caused by these con- 
tinual efforts to hear! I flee from everything that I once 
sought. I fear to meet people — it is atrocious!) But at last 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 657 

I believe that the artist who has the honor of directing my 
artistic conscience will be converted by me and will paint a 
picture in the open air. Besides, he says that he has no 
objection to the open air, and that fundamentally we agree. 
That is quite possible. 

I have been reading Balzac! And, talking of this, I coin- 
cide with his de Marsay, when I speak of this second ego that 
remains always the passionless spectator of the first. And to 
think that he, Balzac, is dead! One can find the happiness of 
loving, only in loving a man of universal genius. In Balzac 
one finds everything — I am very proud to have had several 
times the same thoughts that he had. 

Friday', September 22^/.— Yesterday I carried " The Angler " to 
i Robert-Fleury. It is not bad, but that is all; he finds that 
! the composition is very good, that the expression of the face 
is very good, and that it is well spread on the canvas; but 
j the painting is thin, the outlines are hard, and the good man 
1 is not bathed in air: these reflections are from both . Robert - 
Fleury and from me; I knew all this before. Then I talked of 
my progress, of my work, and involuntarily made the mistake 
of speaking of my discouragement, and the little confidence 
I have in myself. I sat for my portrait to-day, and Robert- 
Fleury told me that he had talked about me with Julian, about 
my experiments and my ambitions. Both he and Julian felt 
sorry for me, and they agreed that I would do well to make 
simple studies in the studio; that the difficulties of open-air 
[work are beyond my present strength, and that this fact dis- 
courages me. He told me this with such delicacy and feeling 
that I had great difficulty in restraining my tears. I believe 
he thought that I was unnerved at not having made a success 
of the old man, which Julian had permitted me to hope I 
would do, and wished to protect me from what he deemed 
despair. He has always tol'd me that nobody advances more 
(quickly, that I am getting along very well, and he laughed a 
j great deal at my desire to go faster than nature. Yesterday, 
42 



658 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

again he said that I am admirably gifted, that I have only to 
keep on, and behold I have spoiled all by my mad waitings of 
yesterday and my appearance of consternation to-day; I shall 
never again have faith in any word of encouragement I may 
receive. I have allowed my unhappiness to be too clearly 
seen, not to believe that such words must have their origin 
in pity. 

As for my picture, I did not dare even to speak of it; it was 
as if the air became lead and pulled the skin of my face 
toward the ground, and my arms burned. 

Since I have complained, since I was foolish enough to dis- 
close the greatness of my ambition, these two men can only 
give me reasonable advice, seeing that it is neither a" play nor 
a pastime with me, and that it has plunged me in despair. 
Then, like two honest doctors, they order me energetic reme- 
dies. From all this, it appears that I am not in condition to 
paint a figure; a picture for a studio study will always pass, 
while — It will not do to show my feeling, as if I had founded 
insane hopes on the old man. I should hear the truth no 
longer. And Breslau? Breslau has two years and a half the 
start of me. What does that prove? Nothing; for two years 
ago she was stronger than I am to-day. She has painted six 
years and a half, and I just four years. I do not include draw- 
ing, neither for her nor for me. So, if in 1884 I have not done 
what she is doing, I am inferior to her. 

I do not need to hear that to know it. And here is a year 
that I have suffered martyrdom. I assure you my sufferings 
have been cruel. I have lost my own self-respect, courage, 
confidence, and hope. 

To work, but with the horrible conviction that it will lead to 
no results; that is the thought that paralyzes me! And noth- 
ing can restore me except a good picture, and that is impos- 
sible in this moral disaster that has overtaken me. 

There is but one thing to consider — that I have not 
been able to paint my old man very well; that I have had the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 659 

good luck to put my hand on an original, interesting, artistic 
subject, and that I have been able to do nothing with it. 
Behold the prodigy I am! 

I am without strength; everything is finished; there is an 
annihilation of my whole being — and not even rhetoric left 
to express that consternation which deprives me of strength 
to hold the pen in my hand. Now for excuses: It rained, 
and I have always been interrupted in the midst of the execu- 
tion of a detail; this is true. I need not have shown that can- 
vas which I did not consider yet presentable; but not being 
able to work, I wished for advice. 

Then, seeing what a poor thing it was, Tony said that the 
open air was too difficult for me. And to-morrow I return to 
Grande- Jatte, and, with the rage and energy of despair, I am 
going to begin all over again. 

Sunday, September 24th. — The days follow each other, and 
are all alike; painting from 8 o'clock until 5; a good hour for 
a bath before dinner; then a silent dinner. I read the papers; 
an occasional word with my aunt. She must have a dull time 
of it, poor woman! And, truly, I am not agreeable. She has 
had nothing in life, for they always sacrificed her for mamma, 
who was handsome, and now she lives but for us, for me, 
and it is not in me to be gay and agreeable during the 
few moments that we are together; and then I am happy 
in the silence, during which I do not think of my infirm- 
ities. 

In Russia, Saturday, October 14th. — My aunt left me at the 
frontier, and I am traveling with Paul. I make sketches at 
the stations and on the road, and I read "Tra los Montes." In 
this manner I revisit Spain, for Gautier's journey is a series of 
colored photographs. What is it, then, that prevents me from 
altogether liking Theophile Gautier? What is there, then, in 
this book of travels that jars upon me? When he relates some 
droll episode, you do not laugh and he says: // was the most 
comical thing in the woi'ld, or the funniest thing in the world, or 



660 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

it was so comical, etc. This produces the effect of a gentle- 
man, who, before telling a story, says that, when he first heard 
it he laughed over it until he cried. But there is something 
else. It is not sincere, perhaps, as literature, or, rather, it 
seems somewhat forced. It is the general opinion that he is 
especially to be admired when he touches upon art. He does 
not speak of art very much in these travels, and he noticeably 
omits Velasquez. I can not understand that in a man so in 
love with painting. 

He talks of Goya. Doubtless, Goya was a great artist, 
even though I am not familiar with his paintings. It appears 
that his drawings and etchings are admirable. He talks then 
of Goya, but why not of Velasquez? He speaks of Murillo, 
and the magic of his painting; but Velasquez is the greatest 
painter that ever lived; no one has ever equaled him in 
truth to nature. His figures are flesh and blood, and from 
the painting point of view, they are the culmination of art. 

We have to wait here five hours for the train. The town is 
called Znamenka, and I am talking in such a place of Gautier, 
of Velasquez, etc.! It is cold and cloudy. If it were not so 
cold, what a day for open-air work! I looked at the peasants, 
with their garments weather-stained, as they are in all coun- 
tries, and no sunshine. Well, I assure you that the paintings 
of Bastien are phenomenally correct. " They are gray; they 
seem flat; they have no consistency," say those who have not 
looked carefully on nature out of doors, and those used to the 
exaggerations of the studio; but they are, for that very reason, 
altogether correct and wonderfully true. He is a fortunate 
man, that Bastien! I had to go away full of the humiliation 
of my abortive angler. 

I shall endeavor to paint the same subject in March for the 
Salon. 

Robert-Fleury even advised me to do so. I must leave the 
background and the clothes as they are, and work only on the 
head. 



« JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 661 

Gavronzi, Sunday, October i$th. — We went to bed at 7 o'clock 
this morning, for we started directly from the station at Pol- 
tava for Gavronzi. Mamma, papa, Dina, and Kapitan were 
at the station. Paul's wife has a boy two weeks old. The girl 
is a year old, and is charming, with long, black eyelashes. 
The young P — s are to come to-morrow. Michka went to visit 
them, instead of welcoming me with the others. 

Thursday, October igtft. — We have them at last. They came 
with Michka in time for breakfast. Victor, the elder, is slen- 
der and dark, with a large and rather thick aquiline nose, 
and somewhat thick lips; but he is distinguished looking and 
sympathetic. The younger, Basil, is as tall, and much larger, 
very blonde, with a ruddy complexion, and furtive eyes. He 
has the appearance of a fighter, a stirrer about in the open 
air, brutal, and — well, yes — vulgar. I kept on my yesterday's 
gown — a white woolen dress, short and very simple, and I 
wore child's shoes of russet goat-skin. My hair was twisted, 
and fastened tolerably low on the neck. It was not one of my 
brilliant days; neither was I much at a disadvantage. 

As the weather was very fine, we took a walk to the mount- 
ain whence the view is magnificent; it resembles the environs 
of Toledo. The young men talked like men of the world and 
Russian soldiers. They are very young. The elder is not 
twenty-three, I think. I am very tired from having to smile 
and talk all day, for papa forced them to stay to dinner, 
although they assured him they had an important engage- 
ment with their superintendent, who was to take them over 
their domains, etc. This countrified habit of forcing people 
to stay is stupid; it bored me a little. 

Here is an incident that took place. Their coachman got 
drunk (this it seems he does habitually here) ; then, without any 
ado, Prince Basil went out and overwhelmed the poor man with 
blows from his fists and kicks from his spurred boots. Does 
not that make your back creep? This boy is horrible, and his 
brother gains by the contrast. 



CG2 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. » 

I do not think I am making a conquest of either of them. 
I have nothing that could please them; I am of medium 
stature, well proportioned, and moderately fair; I have gray- 
eyes, my bust is not too full, and my waist is by no means 
wasp-like; mentally, I think, without too much vanity, that I 
am sufficiently superior to them for them to appreciate the 
fact. 

As a woman of the world I am not more charming than a 
great many others in the circles which they frequent. 

Sarah Bernhardt was hissed on her arrival in the station of 
St. Petersburg, because they expected to see her large and 
dark, with enormous black eyes and a mass of frizzly black hair. 
Aside from that stupidity, the judgment passed on the talent 
of the woman was very sound, and I am entirely of the 
opinion of the Russian journals, which place Mademoiselle 
Delaporte above Sarah; and beyond that, how about Desclee? 
I do not get much satisfaction from Sarah, except the ador- 
able music of her voice when she recites poetry. But why 
have I been talking to you about Sarah? 

Friday \ October 20th. — Monday y October 23d. — There was gen- 
eral consternation Saturday morning. The princes excused 
themselves! Called away to a neighboring estate by a dis- 
patch, they would not come to hunt — and I had had so much 
trouble to dress myself! for I must tell you that I had such a 
heartburn from drinking bad milk, that it was only by the 
greatest effort that I succeeded in putting on that black vel- 
vet dress, in which it is impossible to be ugly. Papa turned 
green and mamma turned red. 

As for me I laughed heartily. Finally, we started out in 
spite, in terribly bad humor and swearing not to go any farther 
than Michel's, who had a magnificent breakfast in waiting, 
while the horses regained their wind. 

Then, with minds somewhat calmed, we kept on our way, 
quarreling every ten minutes about going back. We stopped 
in the middle of the fields. Papa, Paul, and Michka got down 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 663 

and the discussion was carried on through the door. Mamma's 
indisposition was given as an excuse to Michka. 

Finally, after papa had told our coachman to listen to us no 
longer, we started again, half laughing and half grieving. It 
is evident that nobody could guess our mad projects. People 
might well imagine that we would be delighted if it had hap- 
pened; but nobody could imagine that I came as I did, only 
we who knew the true state of affairs feared like thieves lest 
it should be read on our faces. 

Uncle Alexander expected us with the princes. He did 
not dare to say that he would have curtailed the expense 
if he had foreseen that he was to have only us and Michka, 
who also must have felt a little disappointment. You can 
have no idea of the enormous importance of those two little 
idiots in this region. Uncle Alexander had brought three 
cooks from Kharkoff, and among them the famous Prosper 
from the club. 

Otherwise, the hunt was magnificent; fifteen wolves and a 
fox were killed. The weather was fine. We lunched in the 
middle of the forest with over 400 peasants looking on, after 
having chased the beasts toward our guns. " Our guns" is 
slightly an exaggeration, for I did not fire a shot, nor, indeed, 
run across a thing to shoot at; nothing. The wolves went 
to the left and I was at the right, as well as papa, Michka, 
and Garnitsky. I saw a fox, but not within range. Then 
liquor was given the peasants. Ah! I forgot my triumphant 
shot! 

A peasant climbed to the top of a tree; someone threw him 
a bottle of brandy which he stuck on the highest branch, first 
having taken care to empty it, and we amused ourselves by 
firing at it; every one broke off a bit of it, even myself. 
Uncle Alexander took pains to play the agreeable and over- 
whelmed me with flatteries, as did Nadine, also. Their son 
Stephen is a charming boy, fourteen years old, and ranks first 
1 in the military gymnasium. 



664 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

As for the viands and the wines, one could ask no better, 
and then this country is ravishing. The house is delightfully 
planned, and not until now have I been able to understand 
what a very artistic, intelligent, and superior being was grand- 
papa (Babanine), although immured in his village. I would 
not change one thing about the garden, the park, the ponds, 
or the paths. What praise! The autumn, and the neglect of 
everything for ten years, enhance its charm. Gavronzi is 
very ugly compared to Tchermiakowka. 

The rooms here are so well arranged, so home-like, you 
feel so comfortable! The peasant women are beautiful, the peo- 
ple are so picturesque! You remember last year what trouble 
I had to find something to do at Gavronzi. It is, perhaps, 
because I spent my youth here — no, it is because it is simply 
adorable. For those who have memories it may be another 
thing. 

And the billiard table, a little billiard table that has been there 
since — well, mamma remembers it since her childhood, and I 
remember it when I did not come up to the top of it. I 
played on the piano in the great, white, empty parlor, and 
I thought of grandmamma who used to listen of old, in 
the depths of her chamber, at the end of the long, long 
corridor. 

If she had lived, she would be only sixty-five now. We 
dined in the middle of that apartment where her body was 
laid out for three days. I do not know if the others thought of 
it, but it gave me the shivers. People forget everything. 
Had she lived, she would have been so proud of me, and so 
happy! 

Ah, if one could make the dead live again, with what atten- 
tions they would be surrounded! Grandmamma had nothing 
but suffering. 

This evening was a revival of one of those happy gather- 
ings under mamma's reign. All the candles were lighted, all 
the doors of the seven large apartments were thrown open, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. (jG5 

and they seemed well filled, although there were but sixteen 
of us. 

Uncle Etienne played the piano pretty well; then a waltz, 
and Michka, flinging a starovoi over his shoulder, waltzed three 
times around the room. 

The policemen who had superintended the hunt were asked 
to dinner. 

We had fireworks, and to make the entertainment com- 
plete, a fusee set fire to a minute hen-roost thatched with 
stubble. This procured everybody the semblance of an 
emotion very cheaply. The men and women servants ran 
like hares, the water-buckets clashed, people screamed; the 
hosts and the guests rushed about, it was a night hunt; with 
the flames and the trees, it was delightful! We rushed into 
the dark corners in white gowns and satin slippers; at any 
other time I should have been in the midst of the fire like 
Michka and papa, and Paul, and the overseers. Papa really 
was in the flames; he saved all the chickens, and, perhaps, 
did run some little danger. It was so entertaining, there was 
nothing to fear. As for the unfortunate Jew, the author of 
the fireworks and of the disaster, he fled as fast as his legs 
could carry him, and spent the night at Paul's house, about a 
half-hour's distance from the hen-roost. Papa gave him 3 
roubles for his journey the day following, but he preferred 
to make the trip hanging on to the back of the landau; for 
forty versts he was balanced precariously on a bit of wood. 
We did not discover this traveler until we had gone half 
way. 

Friday, October 2jt/i. — It was raw and cloudy after yesterday's 
beautiful sunshine, and, tired of idleness, I proposed to go to 
Poltava with mamma and Paul. On the way we met the 
princess and Dina returning, and Dina w T ent back with us. 
At the hotel we found Michka and Lihopay, and went to the 
theatre. The play confirmed my opinion of the Russian stage. 
The stage and fiction are always more or less a reflection of 



666 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

real life; well, I do not congratulate my country. It possesses 
a coarseness at once naive and depraved. 

People kiss each other on the lips as if it were nothing, 
and this takes place between lovers, or husband and wife 
and then they kiss each other on the neck, cheeks, etc., and 
the audience takes no notice of it. And there are situa- 
tions that should be hissed. Young ladies of the upper 
classes, the sympathetic ingenues of the play, slap young gen- 
tlemen that make love to them, and whom they suspect of 
loving only their dowry. To sum up — if all this happened in 
the world of cocottes, or in the kingdom of phantasy, or in the 
antiquity of Offenbach, and accompanied with all the usual 
follies and jests, it might pass; but this takes place among 
people of every-day life who are supposed to be refined, people 
like you and me, and it is all done seriously. 

One does not know what to think of it. 

This evening, the heroine of the play was a little barbarian, 
an ingenue, who is madly in love with a married man, middle- 
aged, depraved, and witty (in the play); every time that they are 
alone, and this happens constantly in the course of the piece, 
there is osculation ad libitum, innocent on the part of the ingenue, 
but with him, quite a different thing; then, one evening, there 
comes a time when the gentleman draws back, and the ingenue 
says to him, " Why do you avoid me? What are you thinking of? 
I am a living being, after all; there is blood in my veins," etc. 
Finally, she yields to the advances of a young man who is in 
love with her, and returns to say to the elderly man and his 
wife (for he has a young and pretty wife) that he, the faithless 
husband, is to blame for it all, for he had excited her senses 
to such a point that she had been forced into the step she had 
taken. The young man marries her and, calling her "my 
betrothed," imprints such a furious kiss upon her mouth, that 
I am sure her lips must have been black and blue the next 
day. This is coarse, but it is not immoral j it disgusts you with 
love, and it arouses absolutely no other feeling whatever. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 667 

Monday, November 6th. — Doubtless these people can not 
understand Paris, elegance, celebrity? What is the use of it 
all, they ask? Actors are celebrated, painters are known but 
by name; and in that respect, after all, Raphael alone is 
known and cited; and then there are the chromos of the Rus- 
sian daubers, whose talent is false, pretentious, and empty like 
their character. As to elegance, they only believe in that of 
the dressmakers of Kharkoff, "who have the Paris fashions, " 
and our own dresses are "outlandish," "exaggerated," and 
really, coming from Paris, we are not well dressed. 

How then do you think that these people can understand 
what I suffer from staying here with my arms folded! 

Wednesday, November Zth. — Here people go to the ball, get 
tipsy with friends, play cards and sup with the danseuses; 
and if they talk to the ladies it is because they are in love 
with them. 

But to talk to everybody, and about everything, as in 
France, that is unknown in these parts. No news penetrates 
here, and there is no conversation but the vulgarest and 
flattest gossip. The hotel is the great distraction; the noble 
land-owners of the vicinity come and sometimes spend whole 
weeks therej exchange visits from room to room, drink and 
play cards. The theatre is deserted, and they have a horror 
of anything that has the shadow of resemblance to an intel- 
ligent pastime. 

People grovel extraordinarily before the aristocracy in, this 
noble country — ah! I want to go away! What if I should 
become that way? But to return to our princes whom I insist, 
to the great astonishment of the Poltavians, on treating as I 
treat all people in society, as equals, and according to the 
usages of the civilized world — our princes do not please me 
much. Nevertheless, the younger (the one who beat the 
coachman), is gay, amiable, and not stupid; I do not say this 
because he played at wit by crawling under a table set with 
fruits and champagne to upset it. It is true that he beat the 



668 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BA^HKIRTSEFF. 



coachman. Yes, but this can be explained to a great extent 
in this country and in this age. Do you think that people are 
astonished or shocked here? In another it would be perfectly 
natural, in Prince R — it is charming. I wish to leave! 

Paris, Wednesday, November \$th. — I am in Paris! We 
started Thursday evening. Uncle Nicolas and Michka accom- 
panied us to the first station, and Paul and his wife as far as 
Kharkoff. We stayed twenty-four hours at Kiew, where Julie 
(Uncle Alexander's daughter) is at the Institute. She is four- 
teen years old, and is charming. 

Thursday, November 16th. — I have been to a great doctor, 
a surgeon in the hospital; I did not give my name and I was 
very simply dressed, for I wanted him to tell me the truth. 

Oh, he is not an amiable gentleman. He told me this very 
plainly: I shall never be cured. But my condition can 
improve in a satisfactory manner, so that my deafness will not 
be terrible to bear. Bah! it is already unbearable, and it will 
be more so as time goes on. If I do not follow rigorously 
the treatment which he prescribes, it will increase. He also 
directed me to a doctor who will look after me for six months, 
for he himself has not the time to see me twice a week, as is 
necessary. 

For the first time I had the courage to say: " Monsieur, I 
am becoming deaf." Hitherto, I have said: "I do not hear 
well, my ears are stuffed up," etc. 

This time I dared to say that horrible word, and the doctor 
replied to me with the brutality of a surgeon. 

I hope that the misfortunes presaged by my dreams are 
this. But let us not borrow trouble about the bolts that God 
holds in reserve for His humble servant. At present I am only 
partially deaf. 

The surgeon said that it will certainly improve. As long as 
I have a family who keep guard around me and come to my 
aid with address and affection, it is still endurable; but alone, 
in the midst of strangers! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 669 

And if I should have a husband who would be ill-tempered or 
have little delicacy of feeling? On the other hand it might 
be redeemed by some great good fortune by which I would 
be overpowered without meriting it! But — Why, then, do 
they say that God is good, that God is just? 

Why does God cause suffering? If it were He Who created 
the world, why did He create evil, suffering, wickedness? 

Then I never shall be cured. It may be possible to bear the, 
misfortune, but there will be a veil between me and the rest of 
the world. The voice of the wind in the branches, the mur- 
mur of water, the rain which beats against the panes, words 
spoken in a low tone — I shall hear nothing of all this! With 
the K — 's I have not found myself at fault once, nor when I 
have been at a dinner party; when the conversation is a little 
animated, I have nothing to complain of; but, at the theatre, 
I can not hear all that the actors say, and with the models at 
the studio, people speak very low in order not to disturb the 
others. Of course I have anticipated this more or less for 
over a year; ought I to have grown accustomed to the idea? 
I have grown accustomed to it; but all the same, it is simply 
frightful. 

The blow has struck me in a most vital part. 

Oh, if it only stops where it is! 

Friday, November 17th. — So, then, I shall be henceforth less 
than the most worthless of human beings — incomplete, infirm. 

I shall need the sympathy and aid of my own family and 
the consideration of strangers. Independence and liberty are 
ended for me. 

I, who have been so proud, must blush and hesitate every 
moment. 

I write this to impress the fact upon my mind; but I do not 
yet believe it, it is so horrible. I can not yet realize it; it is so 
hard, so cruel! 

The sight of my fresh, rosy face in the mirror fills me with 
pity. 



i 



670 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Yes, everybody knows it, or will know it — all those who 
were already so glad to decry me. She is deaf — but my God, 
why have You suddenly inflicted upon me this shocking, 
frightful, atrocious thing! 

Tuesday •, November 21st. — -I began again yesterday to work 
at the studio. I have returned to the simplest studies, taking 
no note of the choice of the model, its beauty, nor anything 
else. " Six months of this system," says Julian, " and you 
can do whatever you want" He is convinced that I have 
accomplished nothing in the last three years, and I shall 
end by believing him; in fact, since I have begun painting, I 
have made but little progress, Is that because I work less 
hard? No! I have worked myself to death, and for the last 
two years I have undertaken too difficult things, perhaps. 

But Julian insists upon it, that it is because I do not work 
that I do not do better. 

They all weary me. I weary myself. I shall never recover 
my hearing. Do you not feel how horrible, how unjust, how 
maddening this is? 

I bear the thought calmly, because I have prepared myself 
for it. But no, it is not on that account; it is because I can 
not believe that-it will be forever. 

You understand what it means — all my life, until I die! 

It will have an influence on my character and on my mind, 
without counting that, because of it, my hair is already turn- 
ing gray. 

I repeat it, I can not yet believe it. It is impossible that there 
is nothing, nothing to be done; that this is to be forever so> 
and that I shall die with this veil between the world and 
myself, and that I shall never, never, never hear again! 

Is it not true that it is impossible to believe in a sentence so 
final, so irrevocable? And not the shadow of a hope, not the 
shadow, not the shadow! 

It makes me nervous while I work. I am always thinking 
that the model, or someone in the studio, is saying that I do 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFP. 671 

not hear; or that they are ridiculing me; or that they are rais- 
ing their voices for my sake. 

And with the model at home? Can I not say squarely that 
— that what? That I do not hear well. What! Such an 
avowal of infirmity! and an infirmity so humiliating, so stupid, 
so pitiable; in short, an infirmity! 

I have not the courage to confess it, and I have always the 
hope that no one will perceive it. 

Do you know I am simply writing words here? I do not 
believe them. How can I realize this horrible nightmare — 
this shocking, cruel, atrocious thing? I, so full of youth and 
life? How can I believe that it is possible, that it is not a bad 
dream, that it is eternal? 

Thursday, November 2$d. — What I have done this week is so 
bad that I can not understand it myself. Julian called me to 
him, and spoke such useless, such cruel words. I do not 
understand it! Last year he told me almost the same thing, 
and now, when he sees last year's studies, he says: " You could 
not do as well as that now; that was good work." To believe 
him, then, I have made no progress during the last three years; 
that is to say, he began his reproaches, lamentations, and 
little sarcastic speeches three years ago, when I first com- 
menced to paint. 

He thinks, perhaps, that it will incite me to work, but it has 
quite the contrary effect; it paralyzes me. I was good for 
nothing this morning for more than three hours; my hands 
trembled, and my arms burned. 

Last summer I painted Irma laughing, and everybody 
thought it very good. This summer, after my return from 
Spain, I made a pastel, which everyone thought exceed- 
ingly good, and a painting, which was considered good. What 
have I done since? I spoiled my angler. Yes, and then I 
went to Russia — six weeks' vacation. I returned, and chanced 
upon a model I did not like, and a bad position. I forced 
myself to work, all the same, although against my will. I 



672 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

produced a wretched thing, which I tore to pieces and tram- 
pled upon; then I tried to paint an arm. Julian came up and 
found it very bad, and told me so privately. I know that I am 
not a Breslau; I know that I need to study; but between that 
and telling me that my case is hopeless, that I do nothing 
well — upon my word, one would say that I knew nothing at all. 

It is not my fault. After my illness at Nice, he character- 
ized all my efforts as horrors. In that I agree with him, 
but it was not right to tell me that it was because of my idle- 
ness that I made no progress; that I was sure of myself, that 
I did not care, that I believed I knew it all. He can not 
really think that, but it is stupid of him to tell me so, for it 
paralyzes me. 

If I do not make such rapid progress in painting as I did 
in drawing, that is no reason to say such outrageous things to 
me. 

Monday \ November 2 h jth. — A pupil is posing for me, and 
very gladly, for I will give her the picture. Crushed by Julian, 
I scarcely dared to ask anyone to do it, believing that such a 
request would be ridiculous from one who has no talent, who 
does nothing good, etc. 

Now that he can no longer say that I am idle, because I am 
working in his studio, he says that I am pretending. This is 
becoming monotonous. The day before yesterday he told me 
that, for two years, I had made no progress. Of those two 
years I was ill five months and convalescing six more. In the 
rest of the time I painted my Salon picture, a woman, life-size, 
painted in Russia; the "Old Nicene," "Therese," u Irma"and 
" Dina." Those were the large pictures; I do not count the 
numerous small ones. This may be bad, I know, but I do not 
think so myself. 

I suppose he thinks that what he says will stimulate me, and 
that it is witty. It is exasperating! Of course I am not so 
favorably situated as Breslau, who lives in a little artistic circle, 
where each word, each step, has something to do with art; but 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 673 

I assure you, I do what I can, considering my surroundings. 
I am forced, undoubtedly, to waste my time. In the evening, 
for instance, which Breslau employs in sketching and compos- 
ing, my attention is distracted by the people around me. 

One's surroundings count for fully one half, when one is a 
student. All this fills me with a cold rage, and takes away 
something of my attachment to my family. If I did not 
fear to draw down upon myself other troubles, I would say 
that God was not just. Yet, why? No; I hate myself. I have 
grown fat, and my shoulders were broad enough already. My 
arms are rounder, and my chest is fuller than before. 

Sunday, December 3d. — Oh, God! give me the strength to 
pursue my studies, that I may become mistress of my profes- 
j sion; then I can do what I like. I reason so well, and I have 
no strength. When one is thoroughly conversant with one's 
profession, everything that one does is good, or almost so, 
while with me now — What are six months? Can I not wait 
patiently for six months? Can I not forget that it would 
amuse me to paint, and make only studies and lose no time? 

Let me only persevere, and then we shall see. 

Tuesday, December $th. — I have just read " Honorine " at a 
sitting, and I would like to possess such sublime eloquence of 
the pen so as to make my readers interested in my dull life. It 
would be strange if this story of my failures, and my obscu- 
rity, should give me what I want, and what I shall always want. 
But I should not know it; and besides, in order that one 
should read my journal, with its interminable pages, would it 
not be necessary for me to become famous first? 

The uncertainty and discouragement make me idle, that is 
to say, I read all the evening, and then I suffer terrible 
remorse. But still I am idle, whether alone or with my 
family, and it is demoralizing. I write, stopping at each word, 
for I can not depict the terrible trouble, prostration, and terror 
which seize me at the thought that I can not devote my atten- 
tion to anything. 

43 



674 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

What has happened? Nothing, 

I would joyfully consent to live only ten years longer, if I 
could have genius at once, and so realize my dreams. 

Two or three days ago, we went to the HOtel Drouot, where 
there was an exhibition of precious stones. Mamma, my aunt, 
and Dina admired many of the ornaments; but I did not care 
much for any of them except a string of enormous diamonds, 
which, for a moment, I longed to own; to have two would be 
delightful; but there was no use in longing for a miracle, so I 
contented myself with thinking that perhaps some day, when I 
married a millionaire, I could have ear-rings of like size, or 
an agraffe, for stones of that weight would be almost too 
heavy for ear-rings. That was the first time I had ever cared 
anything for precious stones. Well, yesterday evening, those 
two diamonds were brought to me; my mother and my aunt 
had bought them for me, and yet I had only said, without the 
least hope of having them, " Those are the only jewels I 
would care to have." They are worth 25,000 francs; the 
stones are yellow, otherwise, they would have cost triple that 
amount. 

I amused myself with them all evening, and kept them in 
my pocket while I was modeling. Dusautoy played, and Boji- 
dar and the others talked. I kept the stones with me all even- 
ing, and finally took them to bed with me. 

Ah! if other things which appear impossible would also 
come to pass! even if they should be yellow, and cost only 
4,000 instead of 25,000! 

But this discontent is absurd; I have no complaint to make 
of anyone. 

Thursday, December *]th t — I talked a little while to-day with 
Julian, but we no longer have those long talks we used to have; 
we have nothing more to talk about; all has been said. We 
are waiting until I work and accomplish something. How- 
ever, I reproached him with his injustice toward me, or rather 
with the means he has taken to spur me on. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 675 

My pastel will go to a club, and then to the Salon. " It is 
an admirable thing," said Father Julian; and I felt like throw- 
ing my arms around his neck. 

11 Well, you must paint a picture that will arrest the atten- 
tion of artists. ,, 

But, I can not do that just yet. Ah, heaven! if I could believe 
that by working I could accomplish it; it would give me cour- 
age. But it seems to me now that I shall never be able to do it. 
I work badly; yes, I know I do. Since I painted " Irma," I 
have dawdled about with u Pere Charles," and then I have been 
to Russia; total, three months of demoralization. And three 
months represent a dozen studies, a dozen torsos, life-size, or 

j a dozen groups, half-size. I have never in my life made four 

,' in succession. Julian is right, and I ought to have embraced 
him. 

I But — but I was ill a year. 

Thursday, December l^th. — This morning we went to see the 

I pictures which the real Bastien has brought back with him from 
the country. We found him altering some of the details of the 

I pictures. We met like old friends. He is so simple, so ami- 
able. Perhaps he is not all that; but he has so much genius. 
And yet — yes, he is charming. 

And the poor architect is entirely effaced by his brother's 
brilliancy. Jules brought back many studies: " Evening in 
the Village " was full of color, poetry, and charm. The moon 

| is just rising and the windows of the houses are lighted; a 

1 man, returning from his labor in the fields, has stopped to speak 
to a woman, who is going toward a house, the windows of 
which are lighted; the effect of twilight is marvelously ren- 
dered, and you can feel the calm pervading everything; every- 
thing is still, but only you almost fancy you can hear the 
distant baying of a dog. It is in the style of Jules Breton, 
but better than anything that poetical pigmy ever did. 

There is also a forge, at which an old man is at work. It is 
quite small, and it is no less beautiful than those marvelous 



676 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

little dark pictures one sees at the Louvre. There are also 
landscapes and marine views of Venice and London; and two 
large pictures, an English flower-girl, and a little girl in a 
field. The latter are life-size and they filled me with astonish- 
ment, for they seemed to me so inferior to anything else he 
has done. 

At first, one is dazzled by the versatility and power of his 
genius, which disdains to limit itself to a specialty, but does 
everything in a masterly manner. 

His English boy is far above the two girls I have just men- 
tioned; while his street boy of last year, called " Pas-Mlche" 
was simply a masterpiece. 

Sunday, December ijth. — The true, the only, the unique, the 
great Bastien-Lepage came to-day. 

I received him in an awkward and confused manner, nervous 
and humiliated at having nothing to show him. 

He remained more than two hours, and looked at all the 
pictures in all the corners, although I, laughing nervously, 
tried to prevent him from seeing them. The great artist was 
very kind; he tried to calm me, and we spoke of Julian, who 
is the cause of my great discouragement. Bastien does not 
treat me like a society girl, he speaks to me as Tony Robert- 
Fleury and Julian do, only without those horrible pleasantries 
of Julian, who says that it is all over; that I shall never do 
anything; that there is no hope for me. 

That is what makes me feel so badly. 

Bastien is adorable; that is to say, I adore his talent. And 
I think my very nervousness was a delicate and unexpected 
flattery to him. He made a sketch in Miss Richards' album, 
which she had given to me to draw something in, and as the 
paint passed through and stained the next leaf, he wished to 
put a piece of paper between. 

" No, leave it, leave it," I exclaimed, "she will then have 
two sketches. ,, I don't know why I should do a favor to 
Miss Richards, but it sometimes amuses me to give a great 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 677 

pleasure to someone who does not expect it and who is 
nothing to me. 

When I was painting at Grande- Jatte, there came one day to 
the water's edge a whole family, the father and four or five 
children, ragged, dirty, and the perfect picture of misery. I 
gave them 2 francs. You should have seen the poor wretches' 
surprise and delight. I ran away and hid myself behind the 
trees. Heaven has never treated me so well! Heaven has 
never ^hown these benevolent fancies to me. 

Wednesday, December 20th. — I have nothing started for 
the Salon yet, and I can not think of any subject. It is 
torture! 

Saturday, December 23d. — This evening we had to dinner the 
great, the true, the only, the incomparable Bastien-Lepage and 
his brother. 

We had invited no other guests, which made it a little 
embarrassing. They dined with us for the first time, and it 
seemed, perhaps, a little too familiar, and then there was the 
fear that he might be bored. 

His brother, of course, is received here almost as intimately 
as Bojidar, but the great, the only, the true, etc. However, 
the good little man, who, if he were made of gold, would not 
be worth what his talent makes him, was pleasant, and flattered, 
I think, to be considered in that way; no one has yet called 
him a " genius " nor do I. But I treated him as one, and with 
childlike artifice made him swallow an enormous amount of 
flattery. Bojidar came for a few minutes in the evening; he 
was in an amiable mood and agreed with me in everything; he 
is a friend of the family and is very happy to meet Bastien 
and other celebrities. 

But, in order that Bastien should not imagine that I carry 
my admiration for him to excess, I coupled his name with that 
of Saint-Marceaux, and spoke of them as " you two." He 
remained until midnight. He thought a bottle I had painted 
very good, and added: " It is like that that you must work; 



678 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

have patience and concentration, do your best and try to 
reproduce nature faithfully.'* 

Tuesday \ December 26th, — Well, it seems that I am ill, the 
doctor who examined me does not know me and has no inter- 
est in deceiving me; the right lung is affected, and will never 
be completely cured; but, if I take care of myself, it will not 
grow worse, and I can live as long as anyone. Yes, but the 
progress of the disease must be arrested by violent measures, 
burnings and blisterings, everything delightful, in shprt. A 
blister means a yellow stain for a year. I shall have to con- 
ceal the mark in the evening by wearing a bunch of flowers 
high upon the right shoulder. 

I will wait a week longer; if the complication continues and 
I am no better, I will consent to the outrage. 

God is wicked. 

Thursday, December 2%th. — This then, is what the matter 
is — I am a consumptive. He told me to-day: " We must try 
and cure you; take care of yourself or you will regret it." 
My doctor is a young man and seems very intelligent; to my 
objections to the blisters and the other atrocities, he answered, 
that if I did not consent, I would regret it; that he had never 
in his life seen so extraordinary an invalid, and that no one 
would ever guess from my appearance the nature of my mal- 
ady; and, indeed, although both lungs are affected, the right 
being much the worse however, I look as healthy as pos- 
sible. 

The first time that I felt a pain in my left lung was when I 
was leaving the holy catacombs of Kieff, where we had gone 
to ask the good God and the relics of the saints to cure me, 
our prayers being reinforced by money and masses. 

A week ago there was scarcely anything noticeably the 
matter with my left lung. The doctor asked me if any of my 
family had had consumption. 

"Yes, my grandpapa's father and his two sisters, the Countess 
de Toulouse-Lautrec and the Baroness Stralborne — a great- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 679 

grandfather and two great-aunts." At all events, I have con- 
sumption. 

I tottered a little as I descended the stairs of the good man, 
who is so interested in such an original invalid. The disease 
can be checked if I do what is necessary; that is to say, be 
blistered and go South, disfigure my shoulders for a year, and 
exile myself. 

What is a year in comparison with a whole life? and besides, 
my life is so beautiful! 

I am very calm and I am a little astonished at being the 
only one who is in the secret of my misfortune. And the 
fortune-tellers who predicted so much happiness for me? 
However, the Jacob woman foretold an illness, and here it 
is. For her prediction to be entirely realized, there are lack- 
ing: Great success, money, marriage, and then the love of a 
married man. This trouble with the left lung worries me, 
though. Potain would never tell me that my lungs were 
affected; he employed the words customary in such cases, 
the bronchial tubes, bronchitis, etc. It is much better to 
know the truth, and I will do everything, except go away this 
year. 

Next winter, I can have my picture of the " Holy Women " 
as an excuse for my journey. To go this winter would be 
only to begin over again the follies of last year. I will do 
everything except go South, and I will trust in the grace of God. 

What made this doctor say so much is, that, since he has 
been attending me, my lungs have grown worse. He was 
treating me for my ears; I spoke to him of my lungs only by 
chance and in a laughing way, and then he examined me and 
prescribed for me (that was a month ago), insisting upon blis- 
ters. I could not bring myself, however, to agree to them, as 
I hoped that the disease would not advance so quickly. So, 
then, I am a consumptive, and have been so for the last two 
or three years. The disease is not enough advanced to cause 
my death, but it is very annoying. 



680 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

But how, then, can my healthy appearance be explained, 
and the fact that my dresses, made before I was ill, and before 
there was any thought of anything the matter with me, are 
too tight now? I suppose I shall grow thin suddenly; perhaps 
it is because I am young and have broad shoulders and a full 
chest. All my troubles do not seem to affect my personal 
appearance. 

If I am granted ten years more of life, and during those ten 
years fame and love, I shall be content to die at thirty. If 
there were anyone with whom I could make the bargain, I 
would propose this: To die at thirty, on condition of a happy, 
successful life from now till then. 

But I would like to get well, that is to say, to have the mal- 
ady arrested; it can never be cured, but one can live with it 
for a long time, as long as anyone else, in fact. I am a con- 
sumptive; that is settled. I will apply as many blisters as 
they please, but I must paint. I can cover up the stain with 
flowers, lace, tulle, and a thousand pretty things that are used 
entirely for ornament. Besides, I am not obliged to be blis- 
tered all my life. If I take care of myself for a year or two, I 
shall be as well as anybody; I shall be young; still — I — 

Ah! I was right when I said that I was doomed to die young. 
As God can not give me what would make life bearable, He 
evades the difficulty by killing me. After loading me with 
misfortunes, He kills me to crown His work. I was right 
when I said that I was going to die; things could not go on 
as they were; this thirst for everything, these colossal aspira- 
tions, could not continue. I told you so a long time ago, 
years ago, at Nice, when I foresaw vaguely all that would be 
necessary to make life possible for me; but others have even 
more than I longed for, and they do not die! 

I shall tell no one, except Julian. He dined here to-night, 
and when we were alone for a moment, I nodded my head 
significantly, pointing to my throat and chest. He would not 
believe it; I appeared so strong. He tried to comfort me by 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 681 

mentioning several of his friends, in regard to whose condi- 
tion the physicians had been mistaken. Incidentally, he 
asked me what my ideas were regarding heaven. I told him 
that heaven had treated me very badly. " As to my ideas 
regarding it," I added, "I care very little about it." He 
thinks, however, that I believe there is another life. " Yes, it 
is possible." I read to him then Musset's " Hope in God," 
and he recited to me Franck's invocation, or imprecation, " I 
Must Live." 

I, too, wish to live. This position of being sentenced to 
death, as it were, has something of the ghastly humorous 
about it. It is an emotion, a sensation, a chance to pose; I 
am a mystery; death has touched me with his finger; there is 
a certain charm about it, and it is a novelty, at all events. 

To be able to talk in earnest of my death is interesting and 
it amuses me. It is a shame that I can not conveniently have 
any other audience than my confessor, Julian. 

Saturday, December $oth. — The disease is progressing. 
There! I commence to exaggerate again; yet, no, it is true 
that I am worse and shall never be well again, and the good 
God — no, He is neither just nor good, although He will prob- 
ably punish me all the more for daring to say it — God fright- 
ens me so, that I am going to submit to His will, although He 
will not count it in my favor, because it is a submission 
impelled by fear. 

I cough a great deal, and there are strange rumblings in 
my chest. Well, let us put off everything until the 14th. 
If I can only keep moderately well, without fever, and my 
face with a healthy color! That is the difficult part of it. 
Perhaps it is too late; this particular disease makes such rapid 
progress. Both lungs; think of it! 

Ah! misery! 

Sunday, December 31st. — It was too dark to paint, so we went 
to church, and afterward to the exhibition in the Rue de Seze 
of the works of Bastien, Saint-Marceaux, and Cazin. It was 



682 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the first time that I had ever seen any of Cazin's paintings, 
and they captivated me entirely. 

They are poetry itself; but Bastien's " Evening in the 
Village" is in no way inferior to any picture by this poet- 
painter named Cazin; and observe that Bastien has often been 
accused of excelling in execution only. I passed a delightful 
hour, and thoroughly enjoyed myself. There has never been 
a sculptor like Saint-Marceaux. The words so often used, 
and which have therefore become so meaningless, "// is as 
natural as life" are in his case absolutely true; and besides 
his power, which in itself would be sufficient to render him 
famous, there is in his work a depth of thought, an intensity 
of feeling, a certain mysterious something, which stamps him 
not only as a man of enormous talent, but almost as an artist 
of genius. 

He is young still, and he is yet living, so of course I appear 
to be guilty of exaggeration. 

Just for the moment, I am inclined to rank him above 
Bastien. 

I am determined upon one thing, and that is, that I will 
have a picture by one of them and a statue by the other. 



i88 3 . 



Monday, January ist. — Gambetta, who had been wounded 
and ill for many days, has just died. 

I can give you no idea of the strange effect his death has 
produced. It is almost incredible. He was so much a part 
of the entire country that one can not imagine the country 
existing without him. Triumph, defeat, caricature, accusa- 
tion, praise, blame — he experienced them all. The papers 
speak of his fall; he never fell! And his ministry! Is it fair 
to judge of a ministry which lasted only six weeks? What 
folly and what injustice! People expect a man to be a Sully 
in forty days, and when constantly threatened with an over- 
throw for some totally absurd reason. 

He is dead, in spite of his seven physicians and all the 
hopes dependent upon him and the eager desires to save him. 
Why should I take care of myself? Why should I worry? 
Why should I suffer? Death frightens me, now that I see it 
face to face. 

Yes, it seems to me that I am going to die — soon. Ah, 
how I feel my littleness! And yet, what is the use? Why 
should I feel it? There must be something beyond this world; 
this transitory existence is not enough, it is out of all propor- 
tion to our thoughts and aspirations. There must be something 
beyond; if there is not, this life would be inexplicable and 
God would be absurd. 

The life to come — there are moments when one catches 
glimpses of it that are both strange and terrifying 

Wednesday, January $d. — I have been reading the papers, 
which are full of Gambetta, and it seems as if my head were 

(683) 



684 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

encircled by a band of fire. The patriotic tirades, with the 
sonorous words, patriot, great citizen, national mourning, 
have powerfully affected me. I can not work; I have tried 
to force myself to do so, and it was this false coolness the 
first day after his death that made me commit the irreparable 
and always-to-be-regretted mistake of remaining in Paris 
instead of hastening to Ville d' Avray as soon as the news 
was received, and seeing the death-chamber and making a 
sketch of it. I shall never learn how to seize my opportunities. 

Thursday, January 4th. — They brought the coffin to the 
Palace and the President of the Chamber received it. " I 
thank you for having brought him here," he said to Spuller, 
with the tears running down his cheeks. The austere, cold, 
grave Brisson in tears! He was not his friend. "I thank 
you for having brought him here!" There was in that speech 
more pathos than will ever be found in any drama. 

We could not get in, although we waited in line for two 
hours. The crowd was respectful enough, if one takes into 
consideration the French character, the elbowing, the jam, 
the talking, the perpetual temptation to be witty apropos of 
everything, and the funny things that inevitably happened in 
such a mixed multitude. 

But when there was any loud laughter, there were people 
who imposed silence by crying: " It is indecent; respect his 
memory!" Everywhere were sold photographs, medals, the 
illustrated papers, and a book called " The Life and Death 
of Gambetta." It hurt me to see the brutal publication of 
the event and the clamor over it, natural as it was, however. 

Saturday, January 6th. — We viewed the funeral procession 
from the windows of No. 240 Rue de Rivoli, the house of the 
Servian minister, Marinovitch, the brother-in-law of the Prin- 
cess Karageorgevitch. It would have been difficult to have 
had a better place. 

At 10 o'clock the cannon announced the starting of the 
procession, and we went to our places. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 685 

The funeral car, preceded by military buglers on horse- 
back, musicians playing a funeral march, and three wagons 
covered with wreaths, was very imposing, and did great credit 
to the two Bastien-Lepages, who designed it. Through the 
tears that the spectacle drew from me, I recognized the two 
brothers walking quite near their work, the architect almost 
holding one of the cords of the pall. His brother had gener- 
ously yielded to him the place of honor. The car was low, as 
if weighed down with sorrow, covered with a cloth of black 
velvet, upon which were flung here and there wreaths; the 
coffin was wrapped in flags. I would have liked something 
more majestic, perhaps because I am accustomed to the pomps 
of the church. But they wished, and rightly, to avoid the 
regular hearse and to imitate a sort of antique car, which 
made one think of the body of Hector brought back to Troy. 

After three wagon-loads of flowers and many gigantic 
wreaths carried by men on foot, one might think that it was 
enough; but the three wagon-loads were almost forgotten in 
what followed, for never, as everyone says, has there been 
such a procession of flowers, flags, and wreaths. 

I acknowledge, without any feeling of shame, that I was 
completely overwhelmed by the magnificence of it all. I was 
moved, unnerved, excited. Again and again went by wreaths 
of all sorts, colors, and sizes, banners and streamers with patri- 
otic inscriptions and fringes of gold which glittered through 
the crape veilings; avalanches of flowers, whole gardens of 
roses, mountains of violets and immortelles, and another band 
whose funeral march, played too quickly, died away in the dis- 
tance in the saddest of notes. The sound of the footsteps on 
the smooth pavement of the streets made me think of a 
shower of tears. Delegation after delegation passed, com- 
mittees, associations, Paris, France, Europe, the industries, 
the arts, the schools, the flower of civilization and intelli- 
gence. 

And again came drums veiled in crape, and buglers. 



686 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The men of the life-saving stations were applauded, as were 
also the students, who saluted as if to say: " There is, perhaps, 
another among us." Then, another funeral march and more 
wreaths. The handsomest floral-pieces were saluted with 
murmurs of admiration. Algiers was applauded. When the 
deputation from Belleville passed, with that faculty of assimi- 
lation which I possess to such a degree, I felt a sort of tender 
pride, which made me shade my eyes. But when the monu- 
mental wreaths of the cities of Alsace-Lorraine appeared, and 
the tri-colors draped with black, there was a shudder in the 
crowd which drove back the tears. The procession still went 
on, wreaths succeeded wreaths, and the banners and flowers 
flashed in the sunshine through veils of crape. 

It was not a funeral procession, but a triumphal march. I 
do not know why I may not say an apotheosis. A whole 
nation marched behind that casket, and all the flowers of 
France were cut to honor the genius atrociously murdered at 
the age of forty-four, and who embraced in his own person 
all the generous aspirations of this generation; who repre- 
sented the entire life of the young country; who was in himself 
the head and the hope of a regenerated nation. 

Dead at forty-four! And with only time to prepare the 
ground for his work of retaliation and greatness. 

The wonderful procession lasted more than two hours and 
a half, and finally the crowd, or at least the thoughtless and 
indifferent portion of the crowd, broke in upon it, thinking 
no longer of anything, except to laugh at the fright of the 
horses in the tail end of the pageant. There has never been 
anything like it; the music, the flowers, the corporations, and 
the children, seeming, in the pale golden mist, to be like the 
figures of an apotheosis. The sun, piercing through the fog, 
and the flowers, made one think it the triumphal progress of 
some young god. 

Putting politics entirely out of the question, everybody 
tried to show respect and tender regrets to the dead. He was 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 687 

the friend and intellectual comrade of all this generation. 
He represented youth, the arts, the republic, Paris, France. 
The world without him, seems to me like a piece of embroid- 
ered cloth, out of which the chief ornament has been cut, 
leaving only a mark and some frayed threads. 

Ah, overwhelm him with flowers, wreaths, funeral marches, 
flags, delegations, and honors, oh, impatient, ungrateful, unjust 
people! It is ended now. Wrap in tri-colored bunting the 
mournful box which holds the remains of that man of brilliant 
intellect! You are so worthy to honor that mutilated body, 
you who did your best to poison the last year of the great 
man's life. All is ended. Nothing remains but petty men 
stupefied before the yawning grave of the one who annoyed 
them so by his superiority. How many are there who have 
been accustomed to say beneath their breath, that Gambetta, 
by his absorbing genius, prevented them from making a place 
for themselves? Step forward! There is plenty of room for 
you now! Oh, common-place, jealous fools, his death will not 
transform you. 

We returned home about 3 o'clock. The Champs Elysees 
were gray and deserted, where, so short a time ago, he drove 
— gay, young, living, in that very simple carriage, for which 
he was so much reproached. What folly! for, intelligent men, 
far-seeing, educated Frenchmen and patriots, could not, on 
their soul and conscience, believe in the infamies with which 
Gambetta was charged. v 

They say that his seat is already taken by an insect of the Cham- 
ber. There is, then, no one to oppose this gross insult to the 
memory of the one who made illustrious the tribune of that 
Chamber, the portico of which is hung with wreaths, and veiled 
like a widow with an enormous crape scarf, which is draped 
above it, and envelopes it in its transparent folds. 

That veil is an inspiration of genius, and no more striking 
decoration could have been invented. The effect is wonder- 
ful, and it strikes a cold chill to the heart, as if it were a 



688 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

black flag flung out as a token that the fatherland was in 
danger. 

Monday, January %th. — Really, that man dominated France, 
and almost Europe. The whole world must feel a sense of 
loss; it seems as though there was nothing more to read in 
the papers, nothing more to be done in the Chamber. 

There are, doubtless, more useful men, obscure workers, and 
inventors, patient administrators, but they will never have his 
prestige, his magic, his power. And yet, to excite enthusiasm 
and devotion, to group and unite parties, to be the heroic 
spokesman of the country, is not that to be useful, skillful, 
admirable? To be the personification of his country, to be the 
flag toward which all eyes are turned at the moment of danger, 
is not that worth more than all the virtues and wise plannings 
of over-ripe politicians? Heavens! If Victor Hugo should 
die this evening, it would do no harm to anyone; his work 
will remain, whatever happens, and it matters little whether 
he dies to-day, or died ten years ago; his career is accom- 
plished. But Gambetta was the life and the light of each new 
day ; he was the soul of the republic,he was the glory or the down- 
fall, the triumph or the ridicule of the whole country. Never 
again shall we hear an inflection of the voice, nor see a gesture 
of the hand of that man who was unsurpassed both in speech 
and action. He was the wonderful incarnation of a party 
which embraces almost all France; he was the dispenser of 
all that makes hearts vibrate with sympathy, fear, envy, admi- 
ration, or hatred; and it is all ended forever! 

Tuesday, January qth. — If it were possible to describe my 
feelings, I would say that I was in despair at Gambetta's 
death. I wept for the little prince as one weeps over an 
affecting melodrama; the fate of that boy, killed so far away 
in a foreign land, was tragic and touching. But, to express 
what I mourn for now, I should have to have the honor of 
being French, and the happiness of being a man. 

Tuesday, January 16th. — Emile Bastien took us to Gam- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. G89 

betta's house, at Ville d'Avray, where his brother is working. 
If I had not seen it myself, I would not believe that the 
house could be so miserable, for modest would not describe it 
at all. The kitchen is the only decent place in the whole house. 

The dining-room is so small and so low, that I wondered 
how there was room to place the coffin there, and how it was 
possible for his famous friends to gather round it. 

The salon is a little larger, but bare and uncomfortable. A 
wretched staircase leads to the bed-chamber, which filled me 
with astonishment and indignation. What! It was in that- 
miserable cage, the ceiling of which I could literally touch 
with my hand, that they left, for six months, a sick man of 
Gambetta's build, and in winter, with the windows closed! 
Think of it! A large, asthmatic, wounded man! 

He died in that chamber, with miserable, cheap paper on 
the walls, and furnished with a black bed, two desks, cracked 
mirrors between the windows, and old, ragged, red curtains. 
A poor student would have been better lodged. 

This man, who has been so deeply mourned, was never 
loved. Surrounded, as he was, by Jews, speculators, and 
schemers, he had no one who loved him for himself, or even 
for his fame. 

But he should not have been left for an hour in that 
unhealthy, miserable place. 

What! Could the dangers of an hour's journey be com- 
pared to the dangers of remaining, without air, in that horrible 
little room? Carried on a mattress, he could have been trans- 
ported without disturbing him in the least. 

Lo, this is Ville d'Avray, which was depicted to us in the 
journals as a second edition of Barras' residence; and they 
said that Gambetta was entirely given up to ease and luxury. 
What an outrage it was! 

Bastien-Lepage was working at the foot of the bed. Every- 
thing remains as it was — the sheets, the eider-down quilt, 
which still retains the impress of the body, and the flowers on 
W 



690 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the bed. The engravings do not give any idea of the dimen- 
sions of the room, a large part of which is taken up by the 
bed. Bastien's picture is truth itself. The head thrown back 
is shown in a three-quarter view, and the face has that seren- 
ity which comes after great suffering — a serenity which has 
in it something both of this world and the world beyond. You 
fancy you see before you the body itself, stretched motionless 
upon the bed, with the breath just departed. It is very impress- 
ive, I felt my limbs tremble with emotion as I gazed at it. 

Bastien must be a very happy man. I am a little ill-at-ease 
in his presence. Although he has the physique of a young 
man of twenty-five, he has that amiable, unaffected serenity 
that is a characteristic of great men — of Victor Hugo, for 
example. I shall end by thinking him handsome. At all 
events, he possesses that infinite charm of people w T ho are 
strong and brilliant, and who are aware of it, without arro- 
gance or conceit. 

I watched him working, while he talked with Dina. The 
others remained in another room. 

Upon the wall can still be seen the mark of the bullet that 
killed Gambetta. Bastien pointed it out to us; and then the 
calm of the room, the faded flowers, the sunshine through the 
window — all this affected me to tears. He had his back 
turned, and was absorbed in his painting, so, in order not to 
lose the benefit of my sensitiveness, I abruptly held out my 
hand to him, and left the room quickly, with my face bathed 
in tears. I hope that he noticed it. It is horrid — yes, hor- 
rid — to have to confess that one always thinks of the effect. 

Monday, Jajiuary 22a 7 . — For two months I have gone twice 
a week to the doctor recommended by Monsieur Duplay, 
who, as you will remember, had not the time to attend to me 
himself. The treatment, which was certain to bring about 
such good results, has not done so. I am no better; but they 
hope that I will be no worse; " And if you are no worse, you 
may consider yourself fortunate." It is hard. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 691 

Wednesday, January 24///. — After a wearisome day of paint- 
ing, we went to Etincelle's, where there were Monsieur Bocher, 
the business man of the Orleans family, and two others, one of 
whom was a tall, strong man, almost a Cassagnac, but spoiled 
by the eye-glasses he wore. I listened in silence for twenty- 
five minutes, while they talked of the horrors of the Rev- 
olution, the crimes of France since '89, etc. It would have 
been only too easy to have answered them, especially as I 
read every night, before going to sleep, two chapters of 
Michelet's Revolution. However, when old Bocher went, I 
made the mistake, probably, of declaring that I held abomi- 
nable opinions. 

"What! Republican?'* 

How could I declare myself a Republican in that Louis 
XVI. salon, with Etincelle in a gown of royal-purple velvet, 
enthroned in a white and gold arm-chair? I like her odd, 
charming face very much. 

I managed to withdraw from the difficulty by saying that 
the intentions of Republicans were admirable, their impulses 
most generous, etc.; that all parties committed crimes, with the 
excuse that they had the future welfare of the vast major- 
ity in view; that it was natural to be mistaken as to what 
was right — in short, I made a modest but determined apology 
for the Revolution, laying much stress on the sentimental 
side of it. Etincelle strove to console mamma, who was dis- 
tressed at my outbreak, by saying that what was generous and 
heroic in it all would naturally find an echo in my young 
heart, etc. The gentleman with the eye-glasses had listened to 
me, uttering now and then a word or a phrase in the Cassag- 
nac style, and, when we left, he said how much he regretted 
not to have been able to come to our reception (he had 
received an invitation through Saint-Amand). He exchanged 
several polite speeches with mamma, and expressed to me 
1 how honored, flattered, and delighted he was to have made 
my acquaintance. I replied by a simple bow. 



692 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

Thursday, February 22d. — The head of the smallest of the 
boys is entirely painted. 

I played Chopin upon the piano, and Rossini upon the harp, 
all alone, by myself, in the studio. It was a beautiful moon- 
light night, and through the large window could be seen the 
clear, blue, exquisite sky. I thought of my picture of the " Holy 
Women," and I became so enthusiastic over what my imagi- 
nation conjured up, that I was afraid someone else would do 
a similar picture before me, and that thought troubled the pro- 
found tranquillity of the evening. 

There are certain delights which surpass everything else. I 
have been very happy, this evening, for I have read " Hamlet" 
in English and reveled in Ambroise Thomas' music. 

There are dramas which can always move one, and which 
contain immortal characters. Ophelia, pale and fair, goes 
to one's heart. Ophelia! It makes one long to experience an 
unhappy love affair. Ophelia, with her arms full of flowers; 
Ophelia dead — it is all so beautiful. 

There should be some way of preserving reveries like mine 
of this evening, that is to say, all the poetical thoughts that 
pass through one's head should not be lost, but should be col- 
lected in some way. Does this journal answer the purpose? 
No; it is too long. Ah, if God would permit me to paint a 
picture; a real, a great picture! This year, I shall exhibit 
again only a sort of study. 

A study inspired by Bastien? 

Why, of course; his painting is so like nature, that if one 
copies nature faithfully, one's pictures are certain to resemble 
his. 

His faces are living ones, not fine specimens of painting, 
like those of Carolus Duran. They are flesh, human flesh; 
they live, they breathe. It is not a question of skill nor of a 
fine touch. It is nature itself, and it is sublime. 

Saturday, February 2\th. — Do you know that my thoughts 
are continually occupied with Bastien-Lepage? I am accus- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 693 

tomed, when by myself, to constantly repeat this name; but, in 
the presence of others, I avoid doing so — as if it were some- 
thing to be ashamed of. And when I do speak of him, it is 
with a tender familiarity which seems to me natural — taking 
into consideration his talent — but which might be wrongly 
interpreted. 

What a shame that he can not come here as his brother does! 

And what should I do with him if he did? Make a friend 
of him, of course. What! You do not believe in friendship? 
Why, I would worship my friends who had attained celebrity, 
and not out of vanity; but because I really prefer such people, 
because of their gifts, their mind, their talent, their genius. 
Artists of all kinds are a race apart. When we have passed a 
certain mediocrity, we find ourselves in a purer atmosphere; 
in a circle of the elect where we can take hands and dance 
around in honor of — what am I saying? The truth is, Bastien 
has a fascinating face. 

I am very much afraid that my painting resembles his. I 
copy nature very carefully, I know; but still I keep thinking 
of his pictures. Besides, a talented artist, who cares sincerely 
for nature, and who wishes to copy it, would certainly resem- 
ble Bastien. 

If all goes well, I shall have my picture finished in four or 
five days. Yes, but — 

Sunday, February 2$th. — I have really thought for a moment 
that I had painted something, and I was satisfied with myself 
for that moment. Now, I am oppressed with fear, for if it is 
not very good, it will be doubly painful. 

Tuesday, February 2*\th. — This is a series of gay days for 
me. I sing, laugh, and talk, and Bastien-Lepage is the con- 
tinual refrain of all. Not his person, nor scarcely his talent, 
nothing except his name; but I am worried lest my picture 
shall resemble his. He has painted lately such a lot of boys 
and girls; his " Pas-Meche" for instance, What could be 
more beautiful than that? 



694 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Well, my picture represents two little boys walking band- 
in-hand along the sidewalk. The elder is seven years old, 
and is looking straight before him with a leaf between his 
teeth. The smaller one is looking at the passers-by and has 
one hand thrust into the pocket of his little trousers. I do 
not know what to think, for I was really satisfied with it this 
evening. 

But this evening I had an hour of intense delight. " What," 
you ask me, " did Saint-Marceaux or Bastien come to see 
you?" No, but I made a model of my statue. 

Do you understand? I intend, immediately after the 15th of 
March, to make a statue. During my life, I have modeled 
*two groups and two or three busts, all of which I abandoned 
before they were half finished; because, when working alone 
and without instruction, I could only work at something in 
which I was interested, into which I could throw my whole 
life and soul, and not a mere studio exercise. 

I have conceived a figure and I have an intense longing to 
execute it. 

It will be bad, but what does that matter? I was born a 
sculptor. I adore the human figure. Color can never impress 
me as the figure can, although I am also very fond of color. 
Imagine, in sculpture, a fine gesture, a beautiful attitude. 
Look at it from whatever point you like, the outlines change, 
but the meaning of the figure is the same. 

Oh, happiness! Oh, delight! 

My figure is a weeping woman, standing, with her face 
buried in her hands. You know that movement of the shoul- 
ders there is, when one weeps. 

I wanted to kneel down before it. I said a thousand foolish 
things. The model is ten inches high, but the statue will be 
life-size. It will be an outrage on common-sense. And yet, 
why? 

Finally, I tore up a fine batiste chemise to wrap up the frail 
statuette. I love this clay better than my own flesh. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 695 

And then, as my eyes are not particularly good, if I could 
not see to paint, I could model. The white, wet cloth is 
beautiful as it covers and drapes, in graceful folds, the little 
statuette. As I look at it, I can imagine what it ought to be. 
I wrapped it up with respect; it is fine, delicate, noble! 

Wednesday, February 28//?. — The picture will be finished 
to-morrow. I shall have spent nineteen days on it. If I had not 
painted out one of the boys, because he looked too old, it 
would have been finished in fifteen days. 

Saturday, March 3d. — Tony came to see the picture. He is 
very much pleased, and praised one of the heads very highly. 

" You have never done anything so good. It is well drawn 
and the coloring is good. It is really excellent. Brava, 
Mademoiselle! ,, 

And so he went on for some time, so it really must be very 
good. I can scarcely believe it. I have the clothes to paint, 
and I want also to touch up the face of the smaller boy, which 
is not bad, but not so good as the other. Tony really seemed 
to think it good, and yet I am not satisfied; it does not make 
me happy. Ordinarily, I should have danced with joy all day 
long. 

What is the reason that I am not delighted, for he has never 
said so much to me before? Do I suspect him of flattery? Oh, 
no. I might have done better still, or at least it seems to me 
so, and I am going to try to accomplish more with the other 
figure. 

He is satisfied, that is evident. I would like to know what 
he said to the others. 

Is it only relatively very good, very good for me; or is it 
really good? I can imagine it different, I would like to paint 
it over again. I can do better. 

Wednesday, March 14th. — Julian came at last to see the 
picture. I had not asked him to do so, but we had exchanged 
letters, very diplomatic on both sides. He feels that he has 
been to blame, and I triumph modestly. 



696 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

He finds it very good. 

I kept him to breakfast — a stroke of policy worthy of 
Monsieur Grevy. 

Thursday, March \$th. — There! It is ended! At 3 o'clock 
I was still working, but we had several callers and I had to 
stop. There were Madame and Mademoiselle Canrobert, 
Alice, Bojidar, Alexis, the Princess, Abbema, and Madame 
Kanchine. Robert-Fleury came in the morning. We all went 
to Bastien's to see his picture of " Love in the Village." A 
young girl is standing in an orchard with her back to the 
spectator; she is leaning against a hedge, with her head bent, 
and holding a flower in her hand; on the other side of the 
hedge is a young man, facing the spectator; his eyes are cast 
down and he is looking at his fingers, which he is twisting 
nervously about. It is full of poetry and exquisite in senti- 
ment. 

As for the execution, it is nature itself. There is also a 
little portrait of old Madame Drouet (Victor Hugo's guardian 
angel), which is a miracle in point of truth, sentiment, and 
resemblance. None of his pictures resemble each other; they 
are like living beings. He is a painter, a poet, a psychologist, 
a metaphysician, a creator, 

His portrait of himself, which was in a corner, is a master- 
piece. And he has not reached his highest point yet; I do not 
mean that anyone could work harder or do better than he has 
done, but we expect from him a great picture in which he will 
attain such heights that no one will dare to deny his genius. 

The young girl with the braided hair and the flower in her 
hand, is a poem. 

No one has ever entered more into the reality of life than 
Bastien. Nothing can be more elevated and more wonderfully 
human than his pictures. The life-size dimensions of them 
contribute also toward rendering their truth more striking. 
Who would you cite to me as his superiors? The Italians? 
They are painters of religious, and therefore conventional, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKI'RTSEFF. 697 

subjects. There are some sublime artists among them but 
they follow in the same rut, and they do not touch the heart or 
the intelligence. The Spaniards? Brilliant and charming. 
The French are brilliant, dramatic, or academic. 

Millet and Breton are doubtless poetical. But Bastien unites 
everything. He is king of all, not only by his miraculous 
execution, but by the depth and intensity of his feeling. 
Observation could not be carried further, and Balzac says that 
the genius of observation is almost the sum total of human 
genius. 

I am writing, seated on the floor, just before going to bed, 
I could not rest until I had toldall this. 

Thursday, March 22a 1 . — I sent for two workmen yesterday, 
and they constructed the frame-work for the life-size statue I 
shall make after the little clay model. To-day I worked on 
it, and gave it the desired pose. My mind is full of my pic- 
ture of the " Holy Women." I shall try to paint next sum- 
mer, and in sculpture my great ambition is an "Ariadne." 
Meanwhile, I will do this woman, which is, in fact, the other 
Mary of the picture. In sculpture, and without drapery, tak- 
ing a young girl for a model, it would make a charming 
"Nausicaa." She has let her head fall upon her hands and 
she is weeping. There is in the pose such real abandon, a 
despair so girlish, so sincere, and so sad, that I am delighted 
with it. 

Nausicaa, the daughter of the King of the Phceacians, is 
one of the most charming figures in the classics; a secondary 
character, to be sure, but still attractive, touching, and inter- 
esting. 

I entirely agree with Ouida, who wishes old Penelope had 
been strangled and Ulysses married to the lovely young girl 
who leaned against the rose-colored marble column of her 
father's palace and fell in love with the crafty Ulysses, as he 
recited his adventures. No word was exchanged between 
them, and he went away to seek once more his own country. 



698 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And Nausicaa remained upon the shore, watching the great 
white sail fade away in the distance, and when there was no 
longer anything to be seen upon the blue horizon, she buried 
her face in her hands and wept bitterly. 

Sunday, March 25M. — Ever since 2 o'clock yesterday, I have 
been in a sort of trance, which you will understand when I 
tell you the reason. 

Villevieille came to see me and asked me if I had heatd any 
news from the Salon. "Why, no." "What, you don't know 
anything?" " Nothing." "You have passed." "I have not 
heard of it." " There can be no doubt about it, because they 
have reached the letter C." And that was all. I can scarcely 
w r rite, my hands tremble and I feel completely disorganized. 

Then Alice came and said: " Your picture is accepted." 

"Accepted how? Without a number?" 

"It is not known yet." 

I had no doubt but that it would be accepted. 

And then mamma, my aunt, and everybody were in such a 
state of excitement that it annoyed me in the highest degree. 
I made an heroic effort to appear as usual and to see visitors. 

Monsieur Laporte came, but I was dressing. 

I sent forty dispatches, and five minutes afterward, I received 
a message which I copy word for word. " Oh, ingenuous- 
ness! Oh, sublime ignorance! I am going to enlighten you 
at last. Your picture is accepted with a number three at least, 
for I know some one who wished a number two for you. And 
now, conqueror, I salute you and offer you my congratulations." 

It is not joy that I feel, but it is tranquillity. 

I do not think that a number one would give me pleasure, 
after these twenty-four hours of humiliating anxiety. They 
say that joy is keener than suffering. Not with me. Diffi- 
culties, anxieties, and sufferings spoil everything for me. 

Tuesday, March 27///. — I have been looking through the 
" Odyssey," and Homer does not give the scene that I imagined. 
Of course, it must be the logical and inevitable conclusion of 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 699 

the events preceding; but still he does not give it. But 
NausicacCs words, full of praise and admiration of Ulysses, 
show that he must have made a vivid impression upon her. 
She took him for a god, and he returned the compliment by 
imagining her to be a goddess. Of course, it must have hap- 
pened as I said. 

I will read once more the words of Ulysses. When he 
appeared naked before the young Phoeacians, they all fled, 
except Nausicaa. Minerva gave her courage. The old fox, 
very handsome, however, needed garments and protection, 
and he compared Nausicaa to Diana. Then she must have 
been tall and graceful. And his eyes, he said, had never 
beheld such a mortal. He compared her also to a palm-tree, 
which he saw once at Delos, near the altar of Apollo, during a 
journey he made there accompanied by a large multitude, a 
journey which was for him the source of the greatest misfort- 
unes. 

He loaded her with flatteries, and presented himself before 
her in a poetical and majestic light as one worthy of the deep- 
est interest because of his misfortunes; he seemed persecuted 
by the gods. 

In my opinion, it is impossible that this young girl, whose 
beauty and intelligence rendered her the equal of the immor- 
tals, should not have been inspired with a very strong senti- 
ment, especially prepared as she was for it by her dream. 

Friday, March $oth. — To-day, I worked till 6 o'clock; at 6, 
as it was still light, I opened the window of my balcony to 
hear the church bells, and to breathe the air of spring as I 
played upon the harp. 

I am calm. I worked hard all day, then I took a bath, 
dressed myself in white, and played on the piano, and now 
I am writing; I am calm, satisfied, and happy in this apart- 
ment arranged by myself, where I have everything close to 
my hand; it would be so pleasant to live this life, while wait- 
ing for fame. And even if fame were to come, I would devote 



700 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

but two months in the year to the enjoyment of it, and the 
other ten I would shut myself up and work. Moreover, that 
is the only means to procure the two months in question. 
What troubles me is that I ought to marry, for marriage would 
be a way of escape from all these wounds to my pride. 

"Why doesn't she marry?" people ask, and they credit me 
with being twenty-five years old which enrages me. If I were 
once married, it would be all different. Yes, but to whom? If 
I were only well, as I once was! But now I must have a 
man who is kind-hearted, and who has delicacy of feeling. 
He must love me, for I am not rich enough to marry one who 
would leave me to follow my own devices. 

In all this, I do not speak from my heart. One can not 
foresee everything, and it all depends upon circumstances. 
Besides, it may never happen. 

I have received the following letter: 

" Palace of the Champs Elysees, Association of French ) 
Artists for the Annual Exhibition of Fine Arts. ) 

*' Mademoiselle: — I write to you on the table of the committee-room 
to tell you that your Pastel Head has had a genuine success with the com- 
mittee. I have no need to tell you that your paintings have been well 
received. 

" This year is a real success for you, and I am very glad. 
" With my most friendly regards, 

" Tony Robert-Fleury." 

Well, and what then? The letter itself I shall pin in these 
pages, but I want to show it to a few friends first. Do you 
think I am wild with delight? Not in the least; I am very 
calm. Without doubt, I do not deserve to experience great 
delight, since such a happy piece of news does not disturb my 
equanimity in the least. And then, the fact that the letter is 
addressed to me makes it lose all its value. If I knew that 
such a letter had been sent to Breslau, or to any one else, I 
should be excessively annoyed. It is not because I value only 
what I do not possess, but because of my excessive modesty. 
I have no confidence in myself. If I believed that letter, I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 701 

should be too happy. So I am afraid to believe in good fortune. 
I am afraid to rejoice too soon, even when the cause for 
rejoicing is nothing wonderful. 

Saturday, March 31^. — I went to see Julian this morning to 
hear him say flattering things to me. It seems that Bouguer- 
eau said to him: "You have a Russian girl who has sent 
something which is not bad — not bad at all." "And you 
know," added Julian, "that that is a great deal for Bouguer- 
eau to say of anyone who is not his pupil." In short, it 
appears that I shall have some sort of a mention. 

Sunday, April 1st. — I went to the Louvre this morning with 
Alice Brisbane. She is not very interesting, as Breslau would 
have been, for instance; and there was no exchange of ideas 
between us; but she is a nice girl, of sufficient intelligence; 
she listened to me and I thought aloud. It was a sort of 
mental exercise. I spoke of all that was occupying my 
thoughts, and all that I desired; of Bastien, of course, who 
always figures largely in my conversations with 'Julian and 
Alice. I am very, very fond of his paintings, and I shall 
appear to you very blinded if I tell you that, after those old 
smoky canvases of the Louvre, my mind turned with pleasure 
to his pictures, bright and full of life as they are. 

That was the impression that I felt this morning; I do not 
say it will be .a lasting one. 

I cough continually, and although I do not seem to grow 
thin, I begin to feel that I am ill. But I do not want to 
think about it. And why is my whole appearance so healthy, 
not only my color but my weight? 

I try to find some cause for my sadness; but I can discover 
none, unless it be that I have done scarcely anything for the 
last two weeks. 

My statue is falling to pieces, and this makes trie lose a 
great deal of time. 

To-morrow, at 1, I will begin to work again in earnest. 

What vexes me a little is that the pastel is so good, and the 



702 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

paintings are simply fair. I feel, however, that I am capable 
now of producing a painting equally as good as the pastel — 
and you shall see. 

I am not sad; I am simply feverish, and I have a difficulty in 
breathing. The right lung is growing worse. 

Ah! fool that you are! you see yourself, so to speak, wast- 
ing away, and you do nothing! Why do you not use the 
blisters? It will be only a yellow stain for a year or two; and 
what is a year or two in comparison with life, beauty, work? 
I have no great need of that shoulder, and I can so easily 
cover up the marks. 

Well, then? Well, then, one never really thinks one's self 
seriously ill. 

Tuesday, April 3d. — The weather is delightful. I feel the 
strength and the power to paint a beautiful picture. I believe, 
I know I can do it. 

It is spring, and that is one reason for my belief. In sum- 
mer it is too hot to be out of doors and in winter it is too 
cold. In summer, only the mornings and evenings are pleas- 
ant; but now, every hour is a Paradise, and if I do not take 
advantage of it to paint in the open air, I shall be very culpable. 

So, to-morrow, I will begin. 

I feel within me the power to reproduce whatever appeals 
to my feelings. I feel a new strength, a confidence in myself, 
which trebles my ability. To-morrow T I am going to begin a 
picture, the subject of which delights me; then I have, for the 
bad weather in autumn, another very interesting subject. It 
seems to me now that all my ideas will bear good fruit, and I 
am intoxicated at the thought. 

Red-letter Day, Wednesday, April ^th. — My picture is to rep- 
resent a group of six little boys, with their heads close to- 
gether, half-length only. The oldest is twelve years and the 
youngest six. The oldest, who has his back partially turned, 
holds a nest in his hands — a nest which the others are exam- 
ining. The attitudes are varied and natural. The youngest 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 703 

has his back completely turned, his head erect, and his arms 
crossed. 

This seems common-place in the description; but, in reality, 
all the heads together will make an exceedingly interesting 
picture. 

Sunday \ April i$th. — My disease has plunged me into a 
state of prostration which renders me indifferent to every- 
thing. Julian writes me that my picture is not yet hung; that 
Tony Robert-Fleury can not promise {sic) to have it hung on 
the line; but, as it is not yet hung, what can be done will be 
done; that Tony Robert-Fleury hopes strongly (sic) that both 
painting and pastel will be well placed. I did not hope any- 
thing like this two months ago, and now I am as indifferent as 
if I were not concerned in the matter at all. This idea of a 
mention, which ought to make me faint with joy, now that 
they tell me "it is probable, certain even," causes me no sur- 
prise whatever. Life is logical, and we are prepared for all 
events. I regret that fact. I would like a thunderbolt, so to 
speak, a medal falling from the sky without a word of warn- 
ing, and plunging me into an ocean of felicity. 

Wednesday ', April \Zth. — Do you know what I am doing? 
I am attending a competition at Julian's studio. The model 
is a draped woman. It is very ugly; but, as the men's studios 
are to do the same subject, I have entered the competition in 
the vain hope of surpassing the men. 

The decree will be made in four weeks, for the four studios 
are to do the same figure, each in its turn. 

If I receive a mention this year, I shall have progressed 
more rapidly than Breslau, who had taken many lessons before 
going to Julian's. 

I have been playing the piano. I began with the two divine 
marches of Chopin and Beethoven, and then I played at ran • 
dom all sorts of things, so exquisite that I fancy I can hear 
them now. And yet, is it not strange? I can not really recall 
a single note, and, if I desired to improvise now, I could not 



704 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

do so. The hour, the mood, a certain indescribable some- 
thing is necessary, and yet there are running through my 
head the most divine melodies. If I had the voice, I could 
sing ravishing, original, dramatic things. Ah! life is too 
short. « We have no time to do anything. I would like to .be 
a sculptor and to paint at the same time. It is not because I 
have an ambition to be a sculptor, but because I see beautiful 
things, and I feel an imperious necessity of reproducing what 
I see. 

I have learned to paint, but I have not painted because I had 
a desire to make such or such a picture. Henceforth, I am 
going to mold clay to give a body to my visions. 

Sunday ', April 2 2d. — There were only two pastels accepted 
with a number one — Breslau's and mine. Breslau's is not on the 
line, but her portrait of the daughter of the editor of Figaro 
is. My pastel is not on the line either, but Tony Robert- 
Fleury assures me that it looks well, and that the picture below 
it is not a large one. The head of Irma is on the line, and in 
a corner — consequently in a place of honor. In short, he says 
that my pictures are well hung. 

We have people to dine with us almost every evening. I 
listen to their conversation, and I say to myself : " Here are 
people who do nothing, and who spend their time in making 
silly and trivial remarks. Are they happier than I?" Their 
cares are of a different nature, but they suffer as much, 
although they do not enjoy everything as much as I do. Many 
things escape their notice; nothings, shadings, reflections, 
which open a field of thought to me, and are a source of 
pleasure unknown to the vulgar. But, perhaps, I am more apt 
than many to notice the beauties of nature, as well as the 
thousand details of Paris — a passing word, an expression in 
the eyes of a child or a woman, a gesture, all sorts of things. 
When I go to the Louvre, cross the court, mount the staircase 
in the furrow worn by millions of feet, open the door, see the 
people there, study them, try to discover something of their 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASttKlRTSEFF. 705 

inner lives, then I have a thousand varied and enchanting 
thoughts and impressions. If it be true, because I hear some- 
times less well than others do, that I am inferior to the rest of 
the world, I have, perhaps, some compensations for it. 

Ah, no. Everyone knows it, and it is the first thing they 
say when my name is mentioned: " She is a little deaf, you 
know." I do not understand how I can write it. Does one 
ever become accustomed to such a trouble? It is all very 
well when it happens to an old man, an old woman, or 
some unhappy creature; but not to a young girl like me, full 
of life, energy, and enthusiasm. 

Friday, April 27th. — Tony Robert-Fleury came to see me 
yesterday and remained an hour. We spoke of my great 
picture, and he showed plainly that he had serious fears in 
regard to it. 

He encouraged me greatly to persevere with my group of six 
boys. It is very difficult, but I have only to copy. One has 
always only to copy. To copy? That is easy to say; but to 
copy without any artistic sense, without any brain work, is 
stupid! One should copy with the soul as well as with the 
,eyes. I did not say all this to Robert-Fleury. He would 
understand it; but he would add to it his ideas of classical 
interpretation, which I repudiate with all the strength of my 
being. Finally, he said that in a picture of this sort (my 
" Holy Women ") it would be necessary to know things of 
which I have not the faintest idea. For example, drapery. 
Quesaco? 

"Well, Monsieur, I will paint my drapery, since drapery 
there is, as I paint my modern garments." 

" That would be frightful." 

" Why? Were not the people that I am going to paint living 
and modern at one time?" 

"Yes; but there are things in art which should be known. 
You can not paint drapery by chance. It must be arranged 
beforehand." 
45 



706 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

"Well, do not I, as an artist, arrange my garments of 1883 
according to my own ideas? Do I copy them without choos- 
ing them? Is not choice one of the powers of an artist?" 

"Certainly; you will not find in nature your picture ready- 
made for you. ,, 

I did not reply, for I should have been betrayed into saying 
things I would rather have left unsaid. But I shall not find 
my picture ready-made in nature. 

What does that signify? 

My picture is in my head, and nature will furnish me the 
means of executing it. 

It is evident that a certain sentiment must be the governing 
power in all this. If I possess this sentiment all will go well; 
but if I do not possess it, studies of drapery will not give it 
to me. 

I must find a landscape as near as possible like the one I 
have imagined, and that will not be difficult. 

And I want two women models, whom I have already found, 
both good, and one surprisingly so. 

And then? And then I want a place somewhere in the 
country, and fine weather to paint my figures. 

The difficulty is that I shall not paint it this year. I shall 
not be able to go South until November; and, unless I do it 
entirely there, I shall have to wait until next summer to 
finish it. 

I have a deep, enthusiastic, enormous conviction that it 
will be beautiful. I am also certain that the strength 13 
increased tenfold when one is in love with one's work. 

It even seems to me that a certain enthusiasm can supply 
the lack of almost everything. I will give you a proof of it. 
For five or six years I have ceased to play upon the piano; 
that is to say, for months I would not touch the keys, and 
then, perhaps, some day I would play five or six hours. Under 
such circumstances, the fingers become stiff; therefore, I no 
longer play before people, and the merest school-girl could 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 707 

surpass me. But let me only hear a masterpiece, a march of 
Chopin's for example, or Beethoven's march, and I am pos- 
sessed with the desire to play it, and in two or three days, if 
I play only an hour a day, I can play it very well indeed — as 
well as Dusantois, for instance, who took the first prize at the 
Conse?'vatoire, and who practiced all the time. 

Saturday, April 2W1. — Russian Easter. 

Sunday, April 29th. — To-morrow is varnishing-day. My 
picture is not on the line and my gown is ugly, and — Bah! 
that is silly and unworthy of me. This is the truth. I have 
to paint my six boys, full size, standing at the corner of a 
street near a lamp-post. I shall be interrupted for a month 
by my Russian trip, and shall return and finish the picture, 
which will probably bring me into October. In October I 
shall go to Jerusalem, and if I can paint my picture there, I 
shall remain there three or four months; if not, I shall remain 
a month, return here and go to the South, where I can paint 
my figures, and for the background make use of the sketches 
made in Jerusalem. In January I shall return to Paris and 
paint a picture of an interior, not so large as life, after the 
idea I brought from Mont Dore: " The Choir-Boy." 

At the same time, I shall work on my statue, and I will be 
able to devote all my attention to it in Paris; that is to say, in 
July, August, and September, and January, February, and 
March. Yet I do not think " The Choir-Boy " will be painted 
if I paint the " Holy Women " and vice versa. 

They are right to say that I waste my energies, that I 
expend my nervous strength for nothing, and that it is a 
shame. What! It depends upon me to succeed, and I can not? 

We shall see! 

I must try and concentrate my abilities. 

Monday, April 30th. — I have had the honor of talking to 
Bastien-Lepage, and he has explained to me his " Ophelia." 

He is an artist of no ordinary talent. He looks at his art 
from all points of view. What he said to me showed the deepest 



708 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

knowledge of the human soul. It is really beautiful to 
understand art as he does, to feel it as he feels it. He does 
not see in Ophelia only a mad girl, but one miserably unhappy 
in love also — so unhappy that it has partially affected her 
brain. She is the incarnation of disenchantment, bitterness, 
despair, the end of everything. His Ophelia is most touch- 
ing, sad, and heartrending. I am wild over it. What a mag- 
nificent thing genius is! This ugly little man appears to me 
more beautiful and more attractive than an angel. One longs 
to pass one's life in hearing him and watching him in his sub- 
lime labors. And then he speaks so simply. He answered to 
something that was said to him: "I find so much poetry in 
nature," with such a frank accent of sincerity that I was inex- 
pressibly charmed. 

I exaggerate — I feel that I exaggerate; but there is much 
truth in it all, nevertheless. 

We went out together, and there was one supreme moment 
when I found myself in a group containing Carolus, Robert- 
Fleury, Jules Bastien, Emile Bastien, Carrier-Belleuse, Edel- 
felt, and Saint-Marceaux. 

Tuesday, May ist. — And the Salon? It is worse than usual. 

Dagnan does not exhibit; Sargent is mediocre; Gervex 
common-place; but Henner is charming. His picture is the 
figure of a nude woman reading. The light is artificial, and 
everything is 'bathed in a mist of such an exquisite tone that 
you feel as if you, yourself, were being gradually enveloped in 
the magic vapor. Jules Bastien admires it enormously. There 
is a painting of Cazin's which I like less than his landscapes; 
it represents Judith as she is leaving the city to meet Holo- 
fernes. I did not look at it long enough to feel the fascina- 
tion which it is said to possess; but what did strike me was 
that Judith's appearance offered no excuse for Holofernes' 
infatuation. 

Bastien-Lepage's picture did not completely carry me away.. 
The two figures are irreproachable. The figure of the girl 



JOURNAL of" marie bashkirtseff. 709 

standing with her back to the spectator and of whose face 
only the cheek is seen, the hand playing with a flower, evinces 
poetry, sentiment, and observation of the highest degree. 

The back is a poem. The hand, of which only a glimpse 
is seen, is a masterpiece. You can feel what the artist wished 
to express. The girl has her head bent, and does not know 
what to do with her feet, which have assumed a charming atti- 
tude of embarrassment. The young man is very good also, 
but the girl is grace, youth, poetry itself. It is true, just, 
feeling, delicate, and fine. 

The landscape, however, is thoroughly disagreeable. It is 
of too vivid a green and it is too obtrusive. Some say that 
the colors are laid on too thickly.^ At all events there is a 
lack of atmosphere, and the background is heavy. 

And Breslau? Breslau's picture is good, but it does not entirely 
please me. It is well executed, but it tells no story; the coloring 
is pretty, but common-place. It represents a group — two girls, 
one brunette and one blonde, and *a young man — taking tea 
by the fireside in a bourgeois, characterless interior. They 
are all too serious, and they do not seem to be enjoying them- 
selves. The whole picture is meaningless. She who talks so 
much about feeling does not seem to be richly endowed with 
it. Her portrait is good, but that is all. 

And I? 

Well, the head of Irma is pleasing, and the execution pos- 
sesses sufficient boldness. However, it is an unpretentious 
thing. 

The painting seemed to me to have a sombre look, and, 
although it is a scene in the open air, there is no atmospheric 
effect. The wall does not look like a wall; it might be a sky, 
a bit of painted canvas, or anything you choose. The figures 
are good, but the background is disastrous; and yet it deserves 
a better place, especially as things infinitely inferior have been 
hung on the line. Everybody is agreed in saying that the 
heads, especially that of the elder boy, are excellent. It is 



710 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

probable that I could have improved the rest, as it is a com- 
paratively easy task, but I had not time. 

Looking at my picture hanging there before me, I learned 
infinitely more than I could have learned at the stud'o in six 
months. 

Wednesday, May 2d. — I ought to go to the opera, but for 
what reason? I mean, I thought for a moment of going, so that 
my beauty might be remarked and Bastien hear of it. But 
why should I do this? I do not know. It is a stupid idea, 
after all. Is it not a shame that I please people for whom I 
care nothing at all, and on the other hand, when I really want 
to make an impression, I can not? 

I shall think of the opera, however; for, after all, it would be 
simply for the pleasure of going, as I am really not seriously 
provoked with that great artist. Would I marry him? No. 
Well, then, what do I want? Why am I so given to analyzing 
everything? I am very eager to please this great man, and that 
is all. And Saint-Marceaux also. Which one most? It does 
not matter; either would satisfy me. It would give me 
an interest in life. My feeling for these men has changed my 
face. I am much prettier; my complexion is fresh, clear, and 
velvety, and my eyes are bright and sparkling. It is curious. 
What must true love accomplish, if silly fancies produce an 
effect like this? 

Friday, May 4th. — After all, that is not the question. Jules 
Bastien dined here this evening. I posed neither as a child 
nor a mad girl; I was neither silly nor pouting. He, on his 
side, was simple, bright, and charming, and we joked inces- 
santly. There was not an instant of embarrassment. He is 
very intelligent; and then I do not believe in specialties for 
men of genius; a man of genius can be and ought to be every- 
thing he chooses. 

He is lively, too; I feared that he would be insensible to 
that humor, which, to be really delicate, must be something 
midway between wit and nonsense. In short, like Roland's 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 711 

mare, he possesses all qualities. He is insensible to love, how- 
ever, or almost so. Isn't it stupid? 

Sunday, May 6th. — There has been a great deal of talk about 
young Rochegrosse's picture. It represents Astya?iax being 
snatched from Andromache y s arms to be thrown over the 
ramparts. 

It is an antique subject, but treated in an original and 
modern manner. 

He is no imitator, and he draws his inspiration from no one. 
The coloring and the execution are both wonderfully vigor- 
ous. There is no one now who can equal him in those 
respects. And then, he is the son-in-law of Monsieur Th: de 
Banville — so the press is favorable to him. 

Notwithstanding this latter detail, however, he is wonder- 
fully talented. He is only twenty-four, and this is the second 
picture he has exhibited. 

That is the way one ought to paint — composition, drawi-ng, 
coloring, are all marvelously spirited. 

His talents are well expressed by his name. Listen: Roche- 
grosse — Georges Rochegrosse. It is like a peal of thunder. 
And then the idyllic sounding — Bastien-Lepage! Rochegrosse 
has made his debut in art like a torrent; it is possible that, 
later, his talent will take a more concentrated form, and he 
will seek sentiment and psychology like Bastien-Lepage. 

And I? What does my name express? Marie Bashkirtseff. 
I would like to change it, for it sounds like something odd 
and harsh, although it has a certain promise of triumph, too; 
it has even a certain charm, something denoting pride and 
renown; but it has also a quarrelsome and jerky sound. Tony 
Robert-Fleury is as cold as an epitaph. And Bonnat, correct, 
vigorous; but short and without brilliancy. Manet sounds 
like an incomplete being, a pupil who promises much when 
he reaches fifty. Breslau is sonorous, calm, powerful. Saint- 
Marceaux is like Bashkirtseff, very nervous, but less harsh. 
Henner is mysterious and calm, with something graceful, like 



?12 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the antique. Carolus Duran is a disguise. Dagnan is subtle, 
veiled, delicate, sweet, and strong. Sargent makes me think 
of his painting, of a false Velasquez, of a false Carolus, less 
than Velasquez, and yet good. 

Monday, May jth. — I have begun my boys all over again; I 
am drawing them full length on a larger canvas; it will be more 
interesting. 

Tuesday, May Zth. — I live in my art, going down only to 
dine, and talking to no one. 

I feel as though this was a new phase of existence. Every- 
thing outside of my art seems petty and uninteresting. A 
life, such as I am living now, might be beautiful. 

Wednesday, May gth. — This evening we entertained some 
odd people, who would have greatly shocked the society in 
which we move, but whom I found exceedingly amusing. 

Jules Bastien, who is always preaching the economy of one's 
strength, and the concentration of everything upon one point, 
does not expend his energy uselessly. Well, with me, there is 
such an exuberance of everything that it is an absolute neces- 
sity for me to have some outlet for my energy. Of course, if 
conversation or laughter fatigue you, it is better to abstain from 
them, but — he must be right, however. 

We went up to my studio, and, of course, my large picture 
was turned to the wall; and when Bastien attempted to see it, 
I almost quarreled with him in my endeavor to prevent him 
doing so. 

I was extravagant in my praises of Saint-Marceaux; and 
Bastien said he was jealous of him, and he was going to 
attempt gradually to supplant him. 

He has said this many times before; and, although it may be 
only a jest, it delights me. 

I must make him believe that I admire Saint-Marceaux more 
than him — artistically, of course. I said to him: " You like 
him, do you not? You must like him." 

" Yes; very much." 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 713 

" Do you like him as much as I do?" 

" Oh, no; I am not a woman. I like him, but — " 

" But, it is not as a woman that I like him." 

"Oh, yes; there is a little of that in your admiration for 
him." 

"No, I assure you." 

"Yes; and I am jealous of it. I am not dark and hand- 
some, as he is." 

" He looks like Shakespeare." 

" There — you see!" 

The real Bastien is going to detest me. Why? I don't know, 
but I fear that he will. We are hostile to one another; there 
are several inexplicable little things that make me feel it. We 
are not in sympathy, and I hesitate to say certain things before 
him which might make him — like me a little. 

We hold exactly the same opinion in regard to art, and yet 
I do not dare to declare my opinions in his presence. Is it 
because I feel that he does not like me? 

In short, there is a something — 

Saturday, May 12th. — I passed the morning at the studio, 
chatting with the ladies there; and I caught Julian a moment, 
and begged him to come and see the picture of the boys. 

You understand, I do not wish for advice, but simply the 
impression likely to be made on the public, and Julian is a 
fair representative of general opinion. 

He came to dinner, and I had both canvases brought for his 
inspection. First, the group of boys. There are six of them; 
the tallest, with his back turned, is showing something to the 
other five grouped about him. Quite a space of the street is 
seen, and in the distance two or three little girls are walking 
away. He told me very decidedly to take out the lamp-post 
which was in the left-hand corner, and he was right. Other- 
wise he thinks that it is original, interesting, and that it is 
almost certain of success, being much better than the two 
boys exhibited in the Salon; he likes especially the hobble- 



714 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

dehoy appearance of the principal boy, who is beginning to 
grow tall and is what little boys call a "big fellow." 

In short, Julian this evening was perfect — thoughtful, 
delicate, and kind. He neither teased nor scolded me. I 
remarked it, and he said that he spoke to me according to 
what I had to show him, and that I was in a fair way to make 
up all that I had lost. 

We spoke of the " Holy Women," and I explained to him 
my ideas in regard to the picture. We laughed together over 
Tony Robert-Fleury's draperies. Is it probable that these 
women wore beautiful draperies of blue and crimson cash- 
mere? They had been following Jesus for months; they were 
revolutionists, Louise Michels, and all society frowned upon 
them. They had nothing to do with elegance and fashion. 

And during the days that the great drama lasted, the trial 
and the crucifixion, must not they have been almost in rags? 
Julian says that the picture will be either sublime or a failure; 
and that I must be very careful of the Magdalen, for I want 
to do too much with it, and I must remember that in pictures 
of this class the greatest artists have met defeat. 

However, I am started on it. I can fancy my picture just 
as it will be when it is finished. Nothing in the world can 
make me change any detail of it — no journey, no model, no 
advice. The effect of the preliminary sketch pleases Julian; 
but it is not yet what I would wish. I know the time of day 
I desire to represent — an early twilight; a calm in contrast with 
what has just passed. In the distance figures retreating after 
having placed Christ in the sepulchre; the two women alone 
have remained, overwhelmed by the catastrophe. Magdalen 
is represented in profile, her elbow upon her right knee, her 
chin in her hand, her eye fixed upon the entrance of the 
sepulchre. She is kneeling on her left knee, and the left arm 
hangs down by her side. The other Mary is standing a little 
in the rear, her head buried in her hands and her shoulders 
raised; the face can not be seen, and the pose must reveal the 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 715 

very acme of grief, weariness, and despair; one must feel 
her hopelessness and the giving out of all her strength. All 
is finished! Julian thinks the position a very fine one. She is 
thinking nothing of any one else; she has abandoned herself 
to her misery. 

The Magdalen will be the most difficult. She must be 
made to express stupor, horror, despair, prostration, and 
revolt. The revolt will be the hardest thing to depict. 

And I have undertaken such a picture as this. Well, yes, 
I have, and of my own accord, and, God willing! I shall 
accomplish my purpose. Ah! He must know that I fear 
Him, and I will fall on my knees to implore Him to permit me 
to work. I deserve neither favors nor aid, but ask only that 
He may allow me to paint this picture. 

But it may be a failure — a failure in the eyes of the public; it 
will none the less be a fine picture, though. 

And I shall have my street boys to console me. If the 
" Holy Women " is a failure, it will be because it is too fine. 

My Salon picture does not interest me. I did it for lack of 
anything better, and I did not have enough time. 

Tuesday, May i$th. — This is all that I can think of to-night. 
The moon is beautiful, the skies are clear, the stars make me 
think of one of Cazin's pictures, and there is only art. I am 
contented not to have to go away again, to be able to finish 
the boys, and then the angler, and then the boy reading upon 
a bench, and then twenty-five or thirty sunsets. 

Wednesday, May 16th. — It is so warm that life is possible 
only in the evenmg. I go up to my own room, very happy to 
be alone on this quiet floor, with the infinite heavens above 
me. 

But in the spring-time one's thoughts do not turn to senti- 
ment, but to childishness. 

I can hear the whistle of the locomotive and the bell of the 
church in the Rue Bremontier. It is very poetical. 

On these beautiful evenings, one ought to make excursions 



716 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

into the country, upon the water or somewhere, with some- 
body. What somebody? 

I think of all this Paris, of the Champs Elysees and the 
Bois, so full of life, while, as far as any participation in its 
gaiety is concerned, I might as well be in America. Do I do 
well or badly to devote my youth to ambitions which — in 
short, shall I receive a fair interest for the capital employed? 

The whistle is very harmonious at night. A multitude of 
people are returning from the country, fatigued, dreamy, 
happy, worn out. The whistle again. 

When I am celebrated, and that will be, perhaps, in a year 
— I am very patient, as if I were sure that — 

The whistle again. They say that when the whistle can be 
heard so distinctly, there is a storm brewing; and that makes 
me think of Domingue in " Paul and Virginia," and what he 
says of the impending storm. 

It is very difficult to read Balzac in my present state of 
mind; but I will read nothing else, as I do not wish to 
become excited. 

Again the bell and the whistle. 

Friday, May \Wt. — To greatly desire the friendship of 
Bastien-Lepage would be to attach too much importance to 
that sentiment; to distort it, so to speak, and to place him in 
a false and unnatural position. His friendship would have 
been agreeable to me, as Cazin's or Saint-Marceaux's would 
t)e; but I am vexed that I have thought of him as a private 
individual. He is not — not great enough for that. He is 
not a god in art, like Wagner. Only under such conditions 
would it be admissible to entertain a profound admiration 
for him. What I desire is to be the mistress of an inter- 
esting Salon; and every time that it seems as if this hope were 
about to be realized, something happens to prevent it — here 
is mamma gone away and papa dying, perhaps. 

I had a plan of giving every week a dinner, followed by a 
reception, for society people, say on Thursday, for instance, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 71? 

and on Saturday another dinner for artists; the most distin- 
guished of the artists, who had dined with me on the previous 
Saturday, might also appear at the Thursday evening recep- 
tions. 

And then, the whole thing had to be given up; but I will 
try again, next year, as calmly as if I were sure of my power, 
as patiently as if I were to live forever, and as perseveringly 
as if my success were assured. 

Now, may God simply remain neutral, and I will be as 
grateful to Him as if He had conferred some benefit upon 
me. 

Friday, May iSf/i. — I am going to paint a decorative panel 
— " Spring." A woman leaning against a tree, her eyes closed, 
and smiling as if in a beautiful dream; all about her a delicate 
landscape, tender greens, pale rose-tints, apple and peach 
blossoms, fresh young shoots, all that gives to spring its 
enchanting coloring. 

This has never been done in a realistic fashion. Several 
spring landscapes have been painted lately, but the figures 
have been old people, or washerwomen, or lepers. I want 
something quite different. 

A thousand springs have been painted, but there has been 
nothing real about the landscapes. Bastien alone is capable 
of having my idea, and he has done nothing like it yet. The 
woman must seem to be enjoying the harmony of colors, the 
perfumes of the air, and the song of the birds. There must 
be sunlight in the picture. Bastien has painted only gray and 
shadowy atmospheres. 

I want sunshine in my picture, and I will paint it at Nice, in 
an orchard. If I find a very poetic orchard, my woman shall 
be nude. * 

One must seem to hear the murmur of a brook, which flows 
at her feet, between banks sprinkled with violets, and with 
here and there patches of sunshine. 

I want those spring tones which touch the very soul; I 



718 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

want tender greens, enchanting pale rose-tints, and not wishy- 
washy yellows. 

It must be an orgy of sweet notes; all the colors must be 
ravishing, with spots of sunlight here and there to give life 
to the picture and a certain suggestion of mystery in the 
shadows. 

Do you understand? 

But Bastien is doing, or is going to do, the burial of a 
young girl. Now, if he is intelligent, he will use for it such 
a landscape as I have imagined. I hope that he will not think 
of it, and that he will use a landscape of a vile green; and 
yet, I should be sorry if he did not make a sublime picture of 
the subject. 

I want him to have the same ideas as myself, and yet I do 
not want him to. I can see his burial of a young girl in a 
flowery path, with fruit trees in blossom and budding rose 
bushes, and, in contrast, rough peasants' heads. All the poetry 
should rest in the coffin and in nature. 

I will not say anything to him about it. 

Sunday, May 20th. — Mamma arrived early Friday morning, 
and Saturday we received a dispatch saying that my father 
was in a deplorable state. To-day, his valet writes that his 
condition is desperate. He says, also, that he suffers greatly, 
and I am glad that mamma arrived in time. 

To-morrow, they close the Salon for three days that the 
prizes may be awarded. It will be reopened on Thursday. 

I dreamed that a coffin was placed upon my bed and I was 
told that there was a young girl lying in it. Through the 
darkness glowed a phosphorescent light. 

Tuesday, May 22d. — I worked until half-past 7; but at 
every noise, every time the bell rang or Coco barked, my 
heart sank down into my boots.* How expressive that phrase 
is! We have the same in Russian. It is 9 o'clock in the 

* Mon dine s'en va dans les talons. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 719 

evening, and no news yet. How many emotions I undergo! 
If I receive nothing, it will be outrageous. They are so very 
confident at the studio — Julian, Lefebvre, Tony, and all of 
them — that it seems impossible that I shall not be mentioned 
in some way. It is not kind of them at all; some one might 
have telegraphed me. One never can hear good news too soon. 

Ah! if I had received anything, I should have heard of it 
before now. 

I have a slight headache. 

And my heart is beating, beating. Miserable life! This, 
and the rest, and everything, and all for what? To end in 
death! 

Madame X — expired, after terrible suffering, in the midst of 
her sorrowing family. Monsieur Z — died suddenly at his 

residence in ; nothing foretold so premature an end. Or 

again, Madame Y — was taken away from her loving relatives, 
at the age of ninety-nine. 

And no one escapes! The end is the same for all. 

To end! To end and be no more — that is the horror of it! 
If one only had enough genius to live forever — and I write 
stupid things with a trembling hand, because I have not yet 
heard the news of a miserable mention. 

They just brought me a letter, and my heart almost stopped 
beating. It was from Doucet, to ask something about the 
waist of a gown. 

I am going to take a little syrup of opium to calm my 
nerves. One would judge from my agitation that I had been 
thinking of my " Holy Women." The picture is all sketched 
in. When I work at it or think of it, I am in the same over- 
wrought condition that I am this evening. 

I can not occupy my mind with anything. 

A quarter past 9. It can not be possible that the prudent 
Julian would have committed himself as he has done, if I had 
not been certain of a mention! And yet, what can this silence 
mean? 



720 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

A flame seems to have enveloped all my body, and my 
cheeks are burning. I have had bad dreams when I felt just 
as I do now. 

It is only twenty-five minutes past 9. 

Julian ought to have come. He knew it about 6 o'clock, 
and he would have come to dinner, if he had had any good 
news for me. Then, I have received nothing. 

I thought my picture would be refused, when there was no 
possibility of that being the case. But it is quite possible that 
I should receive no mention. 

I have been watching the carriages pass by. Oh, it is too 
late now. 

There is no medal of honor for painting. Dalou will have 
the one for sculpture. 

What does that matter to me? 

Would I have given Bastien the medal of honor? No! He 
can do better than that " Love in the Village," and conse- 
quently he does not deserve it. They might have given it to 
him for his sublime " Joan of Arc," the landscape of which I 
did not like three years ago. 

I would like to see it again. 

Thursday, May 24th. — I have received it! And I am reas- 
sured and tranquil once more, although I can not say happy. 

I learned it through the newspapers. Those gentlemen did 
not take the trouble to write me a word. 

I have considerable belief in the saying that " nothing ever 
happens exactly as one fears, or as one hopes." 

I had been wondering what was going to happen. I should 
either have it, or I should not have it. In the latter case, I 
knew what the effect would have been upon me, because yes- 
terday and the day before, I thought I was not going to get 
it. And in case I received it, I imagined exactly how I 
should feel. What has happened? What was the surprise in 
store for me? Well, in one sense I have won, and in another 
I have lost, beyond all hope, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 721 

At half-past 9 we went to the Salon. Just as we were leav- 
ing the house, we met Bojidar, who was beaming with delight, 
and who had brought his father to congratulate me. We took 
the young man with us. When we reached the room in which 
my picture was hung, I saw that its place had been changed, 
that it had been hung higher, above a large canvas represent- 
ing tulips of a blinding color, and signed by a tenth-rate 
artist. It was probable, then, that Honorable Mention would be 
found attached to "Irma," and I hastened to see. But no, 
it was not. 

I went finally to that odious pastel, and there I found the 
thing I was in search of. 

I rushed off at once to find Julian, 'and I remained with 
him for more than half an hour, but I could not say much. I 
could easily have cried. Julian appeared very much aston- 
ished. He said that since the opening of the Salon, since my 
paintings had been seen, there was no longer any question of 
the pastel, and he was sure that my painting would be changed 
again, and placed upon the line. 

In short, an honorable mention, even when granted to 
another department, ought to prevent one of my pictures 
being skyed in this way. Julian was very sympathetic, and 
he wrote pressing and persuasive dispatches to Cot, Lefebvre, 
and Tony Robert-Fleury. But I am afraid that it is too late 
for anything to be done. 

A mention for the pastel is idiotic, but let that pass. The 
worst thing is to have my painting skyed. Tears of anger are 
falling from my eyes at this very moment. 

I call God and all honest men to witness that last year they 
gave second-class medals to things which were far from being 
as good as my picture, and this year it is the same thing for 
that matter. Everybody will tell you that what I say is true. 
After all, it is nonsensical to be angry about it. 

But I detest all this unfairness and wire-pulling. I can not 
understand this artistic-electoral mess. It is infamous! When 
43 



722 , JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

shall I be able to do the low things that the others do, and so 
have no cause for anger? 

Of course, I would like to have what talent I possess speak 
for itself. But a beginner must be floated by influence. 
Bastien-Lepage, himself, was helped in the beginning by his 
teacher, Monsieur Cabanel. When a pupil shows any prom- 
ise, his teacher ought to hold his head out of the water, so to 
speak, for a short time, and then, if he can keep himself 
afloat, it shows that he has some ability; if not, so much the 
worse for him. Oh, I shall reach the goal in time! But I am 
delayed, and it is not my fault. I am revolted at the injustice 
of it all. 

Bojidar and Dina went to the board of management, to 
demand justice for me, but of course without accomplishing 
anything. Bojidar stole the famous inscription, and brought 
me a bit of cardboard with the words: Honorable Mention 
printed upon it. I immediately tied it to Coco's tail, and the 
poor dog was so frightened that he did not dare to move. In 
short, I am vexed, miserable, unhappy! That skyed picture 
breaks my heart. But my despair furnished an amusing spec- 
tacle to those around me, for when I feel like crying I always 
say droll things. There is no use in annoying people; it is 
better to try to amuse them. 

Friday, June ist. — Those idiotic boys that are posing for 
me exasperate me to madness. I have the permission of their 
parents to punish them, and to-day I seized one of them and 
flung him on the floor as if he had been a package. 

Well, what good did it do? Why, none at all. 

Wednesday, June 6th. — My ears spoil everything for me. 
You will understand my sufferings when I tell you that the 
days I hear well are red-letter ones. Can you understand 
the horror of it? 

And my nerves are excited to an absolutely extraordinary 
degree. My work suffers from it and I paint devoured by 
chimerical fears. I imagine all sorts of horrors; I fancy 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 723 

myself subjected to every kind of infamy. I invent insults 
to myself, fearing all the time that they will become realities. 
I start in at my painting, and I begin to think of what may 
be said of me. I invent such horrors that I leap up and rush 
like a mad girl to the other end of the garden, uttering, mean- 
while, indignant exclamations. 

Ah! this will help me to produce a fine picture! I must try 
douches for my ears. And this evening I will write to mamma 
that she must come home or I shall go mad. I will write at 
once. 

Sunday, June \oth. — As on Sunday there is no risk of meet- 
ing any one there, I went to the Salon this morning. 

The distribution of prizes has really been abominably unjust. 

There is always a crowd before young Rochegrosse's pic- 
ture. It is certainly very powerful, but it does not cause me 
any emotion. But then what is there that does cause me any 
emotion? 

To feel emotion I have to begin by simulating it, and then, 
by working hard, I manage to reach great excitement — ficti- 
tious, of course. 

And yet " Joan of Arc " affected me. Yes, and a few 
other things besides. 

Is there nothing at the Louvre I care for? I do not like the 
ancient machine-made pictures, but I adore the portraits and 
the delicious things of the French school. 

And at the last exhibition of this century's portraits, I liked 
those of Lawrence, and two or three of Bastien's — his brother, 
Andre Theuriet, and Sarah Bernhardt. 

And what else? Well, who tells you that I am both a great 
critic and a great painter? 

By the exercise of will and intelligence, I should have 
done just as well in any other direction, except in that of 
mathematics. 

But I have a passion for music, and I could easily compose. 
Then why have I taken up painting, and why should not I 



724 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

devote myself to something else? Such thoughts make me 
miserable. 

I want to make a great picture — great in size, I mean. 

I have been seeking for a subject, and I have found a 
classical one — Ulysses relating his adventures to the King of 
the Phoeacians, Alcinous. Alcinoiis and his queen are seated 
upon a throne, surrounded by princes, youths of both sexes 
and the members of their household. The scene is a sort of 
gallery with columns of rose-colored marble. Nausicaa, leaning 
against one of the columns, a little behind her parents, is listen- 
ing to the hero. It is just after the festival and the song of 
the poet, Demodocus, who is in the foreground, and with his lute 
on his knees is gazing absently into the distance as if chagrined 
to be no longer listened to. I shall pay great attention to the 
attitudes and the groupings. 

The conception of the picture will be good, but the hard 
thing will be to realize that conception. 

I know nothing, nothing, nothing of furniture, costumes, or 
accessories. And then immense research is necessary to paint 
an enormous picture like this. I must learn what Tony Robert- 
Fleury calls — what does he call it? 

Monday, June nth. — My father is dead. 

We received the dispatch at 10 o'clock; that is to say, a few 
minutes ago. My aunt and Dina both said that mamma 
ought to return at once without waiting for the funeral. I 
came up here to my own room, very much moved, but shedding 
no tears. But when Rosalie came to consult me about one of 
my gowns, I said to her: "It does not matter; Monsieur is 
dead," and I burst into an uncontrollable fit of weeping. 

Have I anything to reproach myself with concerning him? 
I think not. I have always tried to treat him properly. But 
in such a moment one always believes one's self to have been 
in some way to blame. I ought to have gone with mamma. 

He was only fifty years old. He suffered so much, and he 
had never injured anyone. He was very much beloved by 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 725 

his intimates; he was perfectly honorable, upright, an enemy 
to all trickery, and a very good fellow. 

Wednesday, June i$t/i. — I think that if I should have the 
misfortune to lose mamma I should be filled with remorse, for 
I have been very rough and violent with her. My motives 
were good, I know; but all the same I should reproach myself 
for my extravagant words. 

Besides, to lose mamma would be a terrible grief to me; the 
very thought of it brings the tears into my eyes. There is no 
use in taking any notice of her faults. 

She is good and kind, but she does not understand any- 
thing, and she has no confidence in my opinions. She always 
thinks that everything will turn out all right, and that it is 
better " not to make a fuss." 

I think that the death that would cause me the greatest 
sorrow would be that of my aunt, who has devoted all her 
life to the welfare of other people, and who has never lived 
for herself a single moment, unless, perhaps, the time spent at 
the roulette tables of Baden and Monaco. 

Mamma is the only one who is kind to her; I have not 
kissed her for a month, and I say to her only indifferent 
things, or reproach her for all sorts of nonsensical occurrences. 
It is not because I wish to be disagreeable, but because I am 
so very unhappy, and all these discussions of our affairs with 
my family have accustomed me to speak in a short, sharp man- 
ner. If I should try to say tender or affectionate things I 
should burst into tears like a fool. But, without being affec- 
tionate, I could be more amiable, and smile and talk sometimes; 
that would make my aunt so happy, and would cost me nothing; 
but the change in my manner would be so marked that, through 
a feeling of false shame, I do not dare to attempt it. 

And yet, I am very fond of that poor woman, whose life can 
be summed up in one word, " devotion;" and I would like to 
be kind to her. If she were to die, I should feel the most 
poignant remorse. 



726 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Take grandpapa, who made me impatient sometimes with 
his childish ways, but whose age should have commanded my 
respect. I often spoke crossly to him, and when he was par- 
alyzed I felt so much remorse that I was with him, and waited 
upon him nearly all the time in order to expiate my offenses 

And then grandpapa was very fond of me; and there 1 the 
very thought of him has made me cry. 

Friday, June \$th. — The Canroberts have written me a 
charming letter, and, indeed, everyone has been full of 
sympathy. 

This morning, hoping to meet no one I knew, I risked 
going to the Petit Hall, where there is an exhibition of ioo 
masterpieces for the benefit of some one or other. There are 
pictures by Decamps, Delacroix, Fortuny, Rembrandt, Rous- 
seau, Millet, Meissonier (the only living one), and others. And, 
in the first place, I wish to make my apologies to Meissonier, 
of whom I knew little, and who had only inferior things at the 
last exhibition of portraits. Yes, his pictures are literally 
marvels. 

But what had chiefly induced me to leave the seclusion my 
mourning imposed upon me was the desire to see Millet, of 
whom I knew nothing, and whose praises had been constantly 
dinned into my ears. " Bastien is only a weak imitator of 
him," they said. In short, I longed to see for myself. I looked 
at all his pictures, and I shall return to look at them again. 
Bastien imitates him, if you choose to have it so, because both 
paint peasants, both are great artists, and all real masterpieces 
have a family likeness. 

Cazin's landscapes are much more like Millet's than Bastien 's 
are. Millet's greatest merits, as far as I can judge from the 
six pictures I saw to-day, are the general effect, the harmoni- 
ous arrangement, the atmosphere, and the transparency of 
his coloring. His figures are unimportant, treated in an off- 
hand manner, but broadly and naturally. And what makes 
Bastien unequaled to-day is the careful, spirited, and life-like 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 727 

execution of his human figures; it is a perfect imitation of 
nature — in fact, life itself. His " Evening in the Village," 
which is only a small picture, is certainly equal to Millet; there 
are only two figures in it, half hidden in the twilight. But 
the memory of his " Love in the Village " irritates me. How 
faulty the background is! How can one help recognizing that 
fact? Yes, in his large pictures, he is lacking in that atmos- 
phere and that harmonious arrangement which make Millet's 
small pictures so extraordinary. Whatever anyone may say, 
the figures should always be the chief thing of a picture. 

" Pere Jacques," in its general effect, is superior to " Love 
in the Village"; so is " Haymaking"; " Pere Jacques" is 
full of poetry; the little girl picking flowers is a charming 
figure, and the old man is well done. I know that it is more 
difficult to give to a large picture that combination of delicacy 
and strength which is so characteristic of Millet, but no picture 
can be considered a great one if it does not possess it. In a 
small picture, many things may be suggested only. I speak of 
small pictures, where the general effect is chiefly considered (not 
the microscopic fidelity of Meissonier), like those of Cazin, for 
instance, who is Millet's disciple. In a small picture, that 
strange quality called charm, which is due to the general effect 
rather than to any particular detail, can be given with a few 
strokes of the pencil; while, in the case of a large picture, it 
becomes a very different thing, and it is exceedingly difficult to 
accomplish, for sentiment must rest on a basis of science, and 
these are often as difficult to combine as love and money. 

Saturday, June i6th. — I refuse any longer to give to Bas- 
tien's pictures the title of masterpieces. Why so? Is it 
because I can not endure his "Love in the Village,", or 
because I have not the courage of my opinions? A man must 
be dead before we dare to deify him; if Millet were living 
what would people say of him? And then we have only six of 
Millet's pictures here; can we not find six of equal merit in 
the Rue Legendre? " Pas-Mlche" i; " Joan of Arc," 2; The 



728 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

portrait of his brother, 3; " Evening in the Village," 4; " Hay- 
making, ' 5. I do not know all his pictures, and he is not 
dead yet. Bastien is not so much Millet's disciple as is Cazin, 
who resembles without equaling him. Bastien is original and 
himself. One always imitates some one in the beginning, but 
one's own personality soon asserts itself. And, moreover, 
poetry, strength, and charm are always the same; and, if to 
seek these is imitation, it is disheartening indeed. A picture 
by Millet impresses one deeply, and Bastien produces the 
same effect. What does that prove? 

Shallow people will say it proves imitation, but they are 
wrong; two different actors can move us in the same way, 
because real, intense, human sentiments are always the same. 

Etincelle devotes a dozen very pleasant lines to me. I am 
a remarkable painter, a beautiful young girl, and a pupil of 
Bastien-Lepage. What do you think of that? 

I saw a bust of Ernest Renan at Saint-Marceaux's studio, 
and yesterday I saw Renan pass in a cab, and recognized him 
at once. So the likeness must be good, at least. 

Monday, June i8t/i. — Attention! I have quite an important 
event to narrate. I granted an interview at 11 o'clock this 
morning to the correspondent of the Nouveau Temps (of St. 
Petersburg), who had written requesting it. It is a very 
important paper, and this Monsieur B — is sending to it, 
among other things, some studies upon the painters of Paris, 
and as "you occupy among them a notable place, you will 
permit me, I hope," etc. 

Before going down-stairs, I left him alone for a few minutes 
with my aunt, that she might make my entrance more effect- 
ive by telling him how young I was, and all sorts of things. 
He looked at all the pictures and took notes: When did I 
begin? Where? At what age and under what circumstances? 
Give me some details! etc. I am an artist whom the corre- 
spondent of a great journal is going to write an article about. 

It is a beginning, and one that the mention has procured 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 739 

for me. I only hope that the article will be a good one; I am 
not quite sure that the correspondent's notes were correct, for 
I did not hear all that was said, and then it was a very embar- 
rassing position for me. It was my aunt and Dina who told 
him everything. I shall await the article with the greatest 
anxiety, and it will be a fortnight before it will appear. 

They laid special weight upon my youth. 

Thursday, Jtme 21st. — To-morrow, the distribution of prizes 
takes place, and they have sent me a list which includes my 
name (section of painting). This is all very well, but I hesi- 
tate to go; it is not worth the trouble, and then — 

What makes me afraid? I do not know 7 . 

Friday, June 2 2d. — Bojidar has been here since 9 o'clock. 
He is a very curious being. The principal trait of his fantas- 
tic, careless, Slav character is his love of improvisation. 
When he is a friend of any one, moreover, his imagination is 
used to glorify his friend, and he becomes passionately 
attached to people for a certain length of time. 

Those poor artists! Among them were pale, sensitive 
men, of forty-five or so, with shabby, ill-made clothes, who 
went to receive their prizes and to shake the hand of the min- 
ister, Jules Ferry. 

A good old sculptor, as soon as he received his little box, 
began to open it, with a happy smile, like that of a child. 

I was a little nervous as I looked at all the people there, 
and I thought for a moment that it would be a frightful 
thing to rise and approach that table. 

My aunt and Dina were seated behind me on a bench, for 
only those who were to receive prizes had a right to chairs. 

Well, the day for the distribution of prizes is over, and it 
was not at all that I thought it would be. 

Oh, if I only receive a medal next year, and realize my 
dreams at last! To be applauded, to triumph! 

That would be too beautiful, but I am so unlucky; and if I 
should receive a second medal, I should doubtless desire a first. 



730 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And then the cross? Why not? And after that? Well, 
after that, I should like to enjoy the fruit of my labor, work 
constantly, so as not to retrograde, and try to be happy and 
love some one. 

We shall see. There is plenty of time. I shall be no 
uglier, nor look any older five years from now than I do 
to-day. And if I should marry now, I might regret it, per- 
haps. But I must marry. I am twenty-two years old, and 
people think me older, not that I look very aged; but when I 
was thirteen at Nice, they took me for seventeen, and I 
appeared so. 

In short, I must marry some one who truly loves me \ other- 
wise, I should be the most unhappy of women. But it would 
have to be also some one who was a suitable match for me. 

If I were celebrated, illustrious, that would settle every- 
thing. No; I must not count upon meeting an ideal being, 
who will respect and love me, and who is at the same time a 
good match. Famous women frighten ordinary men, and 
geniuses are rare. 

Sunday, June 24M. — I have been thinking of the silly things 
I wrote to Pietro. For instance, when I said that I thought of 
him every evening, that I was constantly longing for him, and 
that if he should come to Nice unexpectedly, I would throw 
myself into his arms. And people thought I was in love with 
him; my readers will believe it. 

But never, never, never was this the case — no, never! 

But often, on a summer evening, when one is bored and 
weary, one longs to cast one's self into the arms of a lover. I 
have had such longings a hundred times; and then I had a 
name to write, a real being, whom I could call Pietro. Bah! 
Pietro, indeed! 

I had a fancy to become the niece of a great Cardinal, who 
might some day be Pope, but there was nothing beyond that. 

No; I have never been in love, and now I never shall be. A 
man must be very superior to please me, now that \ have 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 731 

become so exacting. It would never be possible for me to 
fall in love with some young fellow simply because his appear- 
ance and manners were attractive. 

Thursday, June 28th. — It seems to me, at times, that this 
interminable journal contains treasures of original thoughts 
and sentiments. For years, my journal has been a sort of 
store-house, and I keep always a sheet or two of paper with 
me to take notes for it. It is as much a part of my existence 
as is breathing. I must either win peace by marrying, or by 
devoting myself entirely to work. 

Tuesday, July 3d. — The picture does not progress, and I am 
in despair. I have no consolation, whatever. 

At last I have received the Nouveau Temps, containing the 
article on the artists of Paris. It is very good, but it causes 
me some embarrassment, because it says that I am only nine- 
teen, when I am older, and pass for even older than I am. 

But it will produce a great effect in Russia. 

Thursday, July, 12th. — The Canroberts came to breakfast, 
and then we went to the exhibition in the Rue de Seze. What 
I want is to have talent. It seems to me as if there were 
nothing in the world worth having except that. 

Dressing and flirting amount to nothing. I pay consider- 
able attention to my personal appearance, because that is a 
form of art, and I could not be dowdy. 

This constant worry is making me ugly. I live the most 
secluded and solitary life, and what goodwill it do me? 

It is fine to tell of trials and privations after one's genius 
has been recognized. But meanwhile? I do not think it was 
anything so wonderful for Benvenuto Cellini to burn the work 
of his hands. N I cast into the flames something finer and more 
costly than that. And what will be the result? He knew 
what it would be; but I? 

If I. could get done with that picture of the street boys, I 
would go into the country, into the real country with broad 
horizons, and grassy fields, and no hills; where there would be 



?32 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKI RTSFFF. 

beautiful sunsets, meadows, bushes, roses, wild flowers, and 
space — space! and I would paint a large picture, with a broad 
expanse of sky, bushes, and wild flowers. 

Friday, July 13th. — Am I romantic in the ridiculous sense 
of the word? or am I really superior to the ordinary run of 
people, for my sentiments are in accord only with what is 
most elevated and purest in literature; and Balzac acknowl- 
edges that writers, as a rule, are guilty of over-ornamenta- 
tion. 

And what of love? 

What is love? I have never felt it; for those passing fancies, 
inspired by vanity, can not be regarded as love. I have shown 
preferences for certain persons, because my imagination 
needed an object to weave its fancies about, and these people 
w T ere preferred by me because it was a necessity of my " great 
soul," and not because of their own good qualities. That is 
all the difference, and it is an enormous one. 

Let us turn abruptly to another subject — art. I can not 
tell how I am getting on with my painting. I copy Bastien- 
Lepage, and that is deplorable. A copyist can never equal 
the original. 

One can never be great until one has discovered a new and 
original means to render one's own impressions. 

I have no art. 

I can see something of originality, however, in my " Holy 
Women." And in anything else? In sculpture it is different; 
but in painting! 

In the " Holy Women " I imitate no one, and I think I 
shall make it very effective; for I am trying to put great sin- 
cerity into the mere execution of the picture, and also to 
express all the emotion with which the subject inspires me. 

The picture of the boys makes me think of Bastien-Lepage, 
although I have taken the subject from the streets, and it is a 
very common-place, every-day one. But then, the fear that I 
am imitating that painter is always a worry to me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. T33 

Saturday, July i^tli. — We took a drive to see the decora- 
tions, and I was very much entertained. 

I will continue my subject of yesterday. 

Have you read Stendhal's " Love "? 

I am reading it now. 

I have never been in love in my life, or else I have never 
ceased to be in love with an imaginary being. Let us see 
which it is. 

Read this book. It is even more delicate than Balzac — 
more true, more harmonious, more poetical. 

And it expresses exquisitely what all the world has felt, 
even I. But I have always been too much given to self- 
analysis. 

I have never been really in love, except at Nice, when I 
was an ignorant child. 

And then I had a sickly fancy for that horror of a Pietro. 

I can remember really delicious moments at Naples, when I 
was alone on the balcony in the evening listening to a ser- 
enade; when I felt transported and was in a sort of ecstasy, 
with no other reason than was to be found in the place, the 
hour, and the music. 

I have never had such sensations in Paris, nor anywhere 
else except in Italy. 

If I did not fear the gossip it would cause, I would get 
married at once; I should be free and peaceful while await- 
ing the coming of the one. But, on the other hand, to marry 
an average man, who, irreproachable as he might be, would 
render me unhappy or would bore me to death! 

Monday, July 16th. — Crystallization interests me extremely, 
and I am convinced that there is yet a book to be written 
upon those innocent crystallizations, which really never 
amount to anything. 

Take myself, for instance, with whom complete love would 
be possible only in marriage, or some other right-minded 
young girl, or even a married woman of good principles — we 



734 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

are not exempt from the shocks which cause crystallizations; 
but these crystallizations have no results, and permit me to 
say here that I do not like the word crystallization; but by 
the use of it you can avoid, as Stendhal says, a long explana- 
tory sentence, and therefore I employ it. Crystallizationxom- 
mences. If the " object " possesses all perfection imaginable, 
we are impelled gently forward and we reach love; the essen- 
tial thing is to love, and not to practice the thing which Mon- 
sieur Alexandre Dumas, the younger, calls love. If the 
" object " is not perfect, if we discover a fault, be it ugliness, 
a ridiculous peculiarity, a lack of intelligence, or anything, 
the thing stops half-way. I believe, also, that the progress of 
love can be arrested by an effort of will. 

Tuesday, July ijt/i. — I am still full of thoughts of crystalli- 
zations, which, alas! have no object. 

My painting is improving a little. Oh, to have genius! To 
efface that miserable mention! To exhibit the picture of the 
boys; and the " Holy Women " in an entirely black frame, and 
below, the text: " And he rolled a great stone to the door of 
the sepulchre and departed; and there was Mary Magdalen, 
and the other Mary, sitting over against the sepulchre/* And 
a statue, " Nausicaa" or " Ariadne;" the casts are all made 
and "Ariadne" would create a sensation. They would say that 
it was I, myself, abandoned by — whom? And " Nausicaa?" I 
love them both. 

There are three things (two pictures and a statue) that I 
desire so strongly to do that I have become really supersti- 
tious about the matter. 

Love can not absorb me completely; it will be a charm- 
ing accessory, the crowning of the edifice. Well, we shall 
see. 

Sunday, July 22 d. — I had a burning pain last night in my 
right side, at the place where the lung is affected. I have 
decided at last to submit to a yellow stain for three or four 
months, for I do not want to die of consumption. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. ?35 

Wednesday, July 2$th. — Monsieur X — brought us the two 
busts, which we had purchased for ioo francs apiece. We 
kept him to dinner. 

He seemed very ill-at-ease, although he affected an air of 
composure; I felt for him, imagining that he must be longing 
to getaway. They say that he is poor; that thought pained 
me, and made me ashamed that I had paid for two works 
of art only about as much as a new hat would have cost. 
Instead of making me more amiable, all this gave my manners 
a seeming lack of cordiality, and I was angry at myself for it. 
The poor fellow brought his overcoat into the salon and 
placed it upon the divan. He scarcely uttered a word; we 
had a little music, and that produced a certain diversion; he 
must have suffered terribly from timidity. I can not see that 
he has much brains, yet, with his talents, he must be intelli- 
gent; but we did not know how to put him at his ease; besides, 
his is a wild sort of nature; he must be very proud and very 
unhappy. At all events, it is certain that he is poor and that I 
bought two busts of him for 200 francs. It makes me ashamed. 
I should like to send him 100 francs more; for I have 150 
francs in my purse, but I don't know how. 

Thursday, July 26th. — The weather is so uncertain that I 
have been forced to stop work on my picture, and I destroyed 
all my groups in clay except one, which is not yet entirely 
finished;, and then, of course, Saint-Marceaux came to call. 

What heart-beatings, crystallization, etc.! I put on, took 
off, and put on again two or three dresses, made him wait a 
long time, and, finally, went down to see him, badly dressed 
and very red. 

He is very amusing, with his indignation against the mod- 
ern school and the disciples of realism. He says one must 
seek a certain something, which is art, &nd* which can not be 
explained in words. 

I understand what he means, but — He saw only that paltry 
group, and, from that he told me to continue. It is disconcert- 



736 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

ing; the reclining man, of which C — advised me to have a cast 
made in order to preserve it, was in the hands of the work- 
men, and so Saint-Marceaux did not see it. I have had no 
compliments except for that everlasting portrait of Dina, 
which everybody thinks so good. Saint-Marceaux is charm- 
ing, original, clever, and very nervous; he does not hesitate 
to criticise everything, which is better than that hypocrisy 
which praises everything and everybody. He saw my picture 
of the street boys, and said that it was easy to paint ordinary, 
common-place things — peasants and such things — but the 
difficult thing was to paint beautiful, delicate things, full of 
character. 

"And, above all, strive to put in your pictures a certain 
nameless something which can not be taught, which we find 
only in ourselves, and which, in short, is art." 

Have I not said that? Down with the vile copyists, the 
photographers, the naturalists! 

But I can not help a feeling of pain that I was neither 
bright, nor pretty, nor witty during Saint-Marceaux's call. 

Friday, August 3d. — Bastien-Lepage is enough to drive one 
wild. When you study nature closely, when you wish to imi- 
tate perfectly, it is impossible not to think all the time of that 
great artist. 

He possesses all the secrets of flesh-tints. What others make 
is painting; his works are nature itself. We hear much about 
the realists; but the realists do not know what reality is; they 
coarsen everything, and think they are representing the 
truth. Realism does not consist in the reproduction of a 
vulgar thing, but in executing the thing in the most perfect 
manner possible. I do not wish what I do to be painting; I 
want it to be flesh and alive. 

When one has worked like a dog all day long, it is hard to 
realize that one's work has been of no avail, and only a dry 
and worthless thing has been produced. 

And the memory of that monster of Damvillers paralyzes 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. T3? 

me. The picture is broad, simple, true, and all the details of 
nature are there. Ah, misery! 

Sunday, August $th. — They say that I have had a love affair 
with C — , and that that is the reason I do not marry; for 
otherwise people can not understand why, as I have a fine 
dowry, I have not yet become a countess or a marquise. 

The fools! Fortunately, you handful of the upper crust, 
superior beings, you dearly beloved friends who are reading 
these pages, now know how correct your conjectures were. 
But when the time comes for you to read me, all those of 
whom I speak will probably be dead, and C — will carry to 
the tomb the sweet conviction that he was loved by a young 
and beautiful foreigner, who, captivated by his graces, etc 
The idiot! And others will also believe it. The idiots! But you 
know well that it is not so. It would be poetical, perhaps, to 
refuse little marquises for love's sweet sake; but, alas! I refuse 
them through plain common sense. 

Tuesday, August *]th. — The blood rushed to my face as I 
thought that, in a week, it will be five months since I finished 
my Salon picture. What have I done in five months? Nothing 
yet. To be sure, I have accomplished something in sculpture; 
but that does not count. The " Street Boys " is not fin- 
ished. 

I am very unhappy — seriously unhappy. N. N — dined 
here, and he retailed to me his catalogue of the Museum of 
the Louvre, speaking of the position of almost every picture. 
He had learned it by heart to conquer my good graces. He 
believes that he can do so, and that there is a possibility of 
my marrying him. To have such an opinion, he must believe 
that I am at my wits' ends for a husband Is it, perhaps, 
because he thinks my beauty is fading? 

After his departure, I nearly fainted away with grief and 
indignation. What have I done to God that He should strike 
me blow after blow in this way? What does that modern 
Potiphar believe? If he is not convinced that I shall never 

47 



738 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

love anything but art, what does he think? And yet a mar- 
riage of love is out of the question, it seems. 

Then what is it that makes me cross and impatient? What 
makes my every-day life so miserable? It is a strong force 
within me, something that there are no words in my scanty 
vocabulary to express. 

The idea of a picture or a statue will keep me awake night 
after night; the thought of a handsome man has never had 
that effect. 

I have been to the Louvre this morning to look at Raphael's 
pictures, in consequence of something I read in Stendhal. 
Well, do what I may, from what I saw there, I can not like 
him. I like better the ingenuous effects of the earliest painters. 

Raphael is paltry and false. 

Divine, divine, you say. Divine — is he divine? Anything 
divine should carry us out of ourselves and transport our 
thoughts to celestial regions. 

Raphael wearies me. 

Who, then, is divine? I do not know. Why does Stendhal 
say that Raphael paints souls? In which of his pictures? 

That is an admiration which I can not attain to. No, I 
prefer the early artists, simple and wonderful men, among 
whom is the great Perugino. But what do I care for those 
enormous, absurd canvases, full of technique and knowledge, 
or even Rubens' masses of flesh? They bore me! What do I 
say to Raphael's Madonnas, or " The Marriage in Cana?" 
Why, there is nothing divine about them. His Madonnas 
are ordinary — and his children! Well, I must see again his 
pictures that are in Italy. The memory that I have of them" 
is not pleasant. The " Madonna della Sedia " is a pretty, 
delicate woman of the Italian type. I see more divinity in 
Michael Angelo's. Raphael Sanzio. Listen Jo that high- 
sounding name! 

I would like to paint only things which move one, make the 
pulses throb, or set one dreaming — something which touches 



JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 739 

the heart like the simple little pictures of Cazin; the size 
matters little, but if one could achieve that effect in a large 
picture it would be superb. But how many are there who 
appreciate Cazin? 

Saturday, August nth. — I have been reading Stendhal's 
history of painting, and the intelligent man thinks exactly 
as I do. Yet it seems to me that he strives too hard to be 
sarcastic and original. 

I felt a painful surprise when I read his opinion that, to 
paint grief, one ought to be well-posted in physiology. 

Why? 

If I do not feel the sentiment, how can physiology teach 
me to do so? The muscles! Oh, Lord! A painter who 
attempts to depict grief physiologically, without having seen 
it, understood it, felt it (literally), will never be anything but 
a cold, dry artist. It is as if one should advise some one in 
trouble to grieve according to certain rules. 

Feel first, and then, if you wish, use your reason. Analysis 
can do nothing but confirm the first impression. The study 
would simply be one of pure curiosity. 

You can analyze the component parts of tears, if you like, 
to learn logically and scientifically what color they should be 
painted. But I prefer to paint them as I see them, without 
even knowing why they are what they are, and not something 
else. 

Sunday, August 12th. — The idea that Bastien-Lepage was 
to come, unnerved me to such a degree that I could do 
nothing. It is really ridiculous to be so impressionable. 

The Pope dined with us! We talked all through dinner. 
Bastien-Lepage is exceedingly intelligent, but less brilliant 
than Saint-Marceaux. I did not show him any of my paint- 
ings — not one, not one, not one! I said nothing; that is to 
say, I was not brilliant, and when he began an interesting con- 
versation, I did not know how to answer him, nor could I 
even follow his crisp, bright sentences which were so like his 



740 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

paintings. If it had been Julian, I should have answered him, 
for that is the sort of conversation that suits me best. He is 
intelligent, he understands everything, he is even learned, and 
I feared to display any ignorance. 

When he said things to which I should have responded in 
a manner to display the best qualities of my mind and heart, 
I was stupidly silent. 

I can not even write; I am completely disorganized to-day. 

I long to remain alone — all alone by myself, to think about 
the powerful impression this man has made upon me. Ten 
minutes after he arrived, I had mentally capitulated and 
accepted his influence over me. 

I said nothing that I ought to have said. He is a demi-god, 
and he knows it. I have even strengthened him in that belief. 
To ordinary eyes, he is small and ugly; but, to me and people 
of my stamp, his face is charming. What does he think of 
me? I was awkward and I laughed too much. He said he 
was jealous of Saint-Marceaux. A fine triumph for me! 

Thursday r , August 16th. — To say that I had met with a great 
misfortune would, perhaps, be an exaggeration; but what has 
happened can really be considered, even by the most sensible 
people, as a heavy blow. 

It is stupid, too, as all misfortunes are. 

I was going to send my picture to the Triennial the 20th of 
August, the last day of grace; and it is not the 20th, but 
to-day, the 16th, which is the last day of grace. 

My nostrils dilate, I have pains in my back, and my hands 
tremble as though I had the palsy. 

After having been beaten, one must feel as I do. 

I went and hid in the bath-room to weep out my misery; it 
was not a very romantic spot, but it was the only place where 
I would not be interrupted. 

If I had shut myself up in my room, they w T ould guess 
why I had done so after having received such a blow. It is, 
T tli ink, the first time that I have hidden myself to cry, with 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIR TSEFF. 741 

my eyes closed and my mouth twisted up like a child or a 
clown. And after that? Well, after that, I went to my study 
and remained there until my eyes had lost their redness. 

Once, some time ago, I wept in mamma's arms; and this 
grief, shared, so to speak, was such a cruel humiliation to me 
for months afterward, that I will never again weep for a per- 
sonal misfortune before anyone. One can shed tears in the 
presence of anyone, no matter who, from anger or for the death 
of Gambetta, for instance; but to parade one's weakness, 
poverty of spirit, misery, humiliation — never! It may be a 
consolation for the time being, but you will repent it ever 
afterward. 

While weeping in the bath-room, I found the expression I 
want for my Magdalen, who can not look at the sepulchre, 
and who stares fixedly before her, as I did at that moment. I 
must paint her with her eyes wide open, just after having 
wept bitterly. 

God is unjust, and if He does not exist, to whom can I 
appeal? He punishes me for having doubted Him. He does 
everything to make me doubt Him, and then, when I do 
doubt Him, He strikes me over the head; and when I persist 
in believing in Him and praying to Him, He strikes me harder 
still, to teach me patience. 

Friday, August 17th. — People do not believe in my timidity; 
it is due, however, to an excess of pride. 

I have a horror and a terror of asking anything; it must be 
offered to me. If, after I have worked myself up to the 
proper degree of courage, I determine to ask for something, I 
never get what I want; it is almost always too late. 

I turn white and red twenty times before I dare to say that 
I intend to paint or exhibit a picture; it seems to me that 
people are laughing at me; that I don't know anything, that I 
am pretentious and ridiculous. 

When anyone looks at a picture of mine {anyone means an 
artist, of course), I retire as far away as I can, I am so afraid 



742 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

of an adverse word or look. However, Robert-Fieury does 
not suspect that I have so little confidence in myself. As I 
speak in a boasting sort of way, he thinks that I have a high 
opinion of myself, and believe myself to have great talent. 
Consequently, he thinks that there is no need of encouraging 
me, and if I should tell him my doubts and hesitations he 
would laugh at me. I spoke to him on the subject once, and 
he took it as a joke. That is a great error into which I have 
fallen. Bastien-Lepage knows, I think, that I am frightfully 
afraid of him, and he believes himself to be a god. 

Monday \ August 20th. — I have been singing; it is a beautiful 
night, and the moonlight streams in through the large window 
of the studio. One ought to be able to be happy. Yes, if 
one had the luck to fall in love. In love with whom? 

Tuesday, August 21st. — No, I shall not die until I am forty 
years old, like Mademoiselle Colignon. When I am about 
thirty-five I shall be very ill, and at thirty-six or seven I shall 
spend a winter in bed. And my last wishes? I shall simply 
ask a statue and a portrait from Saint-Marceaux and Jules 
Bastien-Lepage, to be placed in a prominent place in some 
chapel of Paris, surrounded by flowers; and, forever, at each 
anniversary of my death, masses by Verdi and Pergolese, 
and other music shall be sung by the most celebrated sing- 
ers. 

And then I will found a prize for artists, both male and 
female. 

Instead of thinking about that, however, I want to live. 
But I have no genius, and it is much better to die. 

Monday, August 2jt/i. — I have given my picture of the 
angler to the Ischia lottery; tickets are for sale at Petit's in 
the. Rue de Seze. My angler is good, and the water is well 
painted, they say. I would never have believed it. We are all 
fools. Wliat is the use of doing artistic work? The multi- 
tude will never appreciate it. Do you care for what the 
multitude thinks of you? Yes; that is, I should like to have 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 743 

everybody familiar with my name, in order that I might have 
the more admiration. 

Wednesday, August 29th. — I cough all the time, in spite of 
the warm weather; and this afternoon, while the model was 
resting, I laid down "on the divan and had a vision of myself 
stretched out with a tall, lighted candle beside me. 

That will be the end of all my troubles. 

Death? I am terribly afraid of it. 

And I don't want to die. It would be frightful. I don't 
know how happy people feel, but I am right to complain, since 
I have nothing more to expect of God. When that supreme 
refuge fails, one has nothing to do but to die. Without God 
there can be no poetry, no affection, no genius, no love, no 
ambition. 

The passions cause us doubts, aspirations, desires, furious 
thoughts. We need a Being above all this — a God to Whom 
we can tell our enthusiasms and address our prayers; a God 
Who is all powerful, and of Whom we can ask anything, 
to Whom we can disclose our most secret thoughts. I 
should like to have all remarkable men confess the truth, 
and say if, when they have been very much in love, very 
ambitious, or very unhappy, they have not had recourse to 
God. 

Vulgar natures, however intelligent and learned they may 
be, can dispense with Him; but those who have the spark, 
even if they are learned in all sciences, even if their reason 
bids them doubt, such people are possessed, at least at times, 
by a passionate belief. 

I am not very learned, but all my reflections lead to this 
conclusion: The God that we are taught to believe in is an 
invention. Let us speak no more of the God of religion, or 
religions, rather. 

But the God of men of genius, the God of philosophers, 
the God of people who are possessed of more than average 
intelligence, like you and I — that God is unjust if He does not 



744 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

listen to us; or, if He is a wicked God, I don't see what busi- 
ness He has to exist. 

But if He does not exist, why has there been this universal 
craving for something to adore, among all nations and in all 
ages? Is it possible that there is nothing which can answer 
to these aspirations, which are inborn in all men; to this 
instinct which leads us to seek the Supreme Being, the great 
Master, God? 

Saturday, September 8th. — This has been a good day. I 
have finished the portrait of Louis. We went to Versailles, 
and in the evening, after a call on the Marechale, Claire and 
I threw ourselves down on the floor in the salon, as we do 
every evening. We talked about art, as we also do every 
evening; but to-night there was more real intimacy than usual, 
and it is at such times especially that I think of my picture. 
It shall be something full of poetry — calm, simple, broad. 

You see my aspirations are not so lofty but that they may 
well be realized. Well, we shall see. 

My new picture should be grand and simple. 

Thursday, September 13th. — I read in " Stendhal " that our 
sorrows appear less bitter when we idealize them. This is 
exceedingly true. But how can I idealize mine? It is impos- 
sible! They are so bitter, so miserable, so frightful, that I 
can not speak of them even in these pages without wounding 
myself horribly. How can I say that at times I don't hear 
well? Well, may the will of God be done! This phrase comes 
to me mechanically, and I almost believe it; for I am going to 
die quite naturally in my bed without violence. 

I am reconciled, for I am uneasy about my eyes. I did not 
work or read for a fortnight, and they were no better. I have 
palpitations, and see floating specks in the air. 

It is, perhaps, because for the last two weeks I had had 
bronchitis, which would keep in bed any one else in the world, 
and yet I walk about as if nothing were the matter with 
me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 145 

I have been working on Dina's portrait, but with spirits so 
depressed that it will probably give me more white hairs. 

Saturday, September i$th. — This morning I went to the 
Salon to see Bastien's pictures. What can I say? He is the 
jewel of jewels. There are three portraits, which, to use the 
words of Julian, who dined with us to-night, are enough to 
drive one wild. Never has anything like them been done 
before. They are alive; they have souls. In execution there 
is nothing which can be compared to them, for they are nature 
itself. It is foolish to attempt to paint after seeing the 
products of his brush. 

He has a little picture entitled " Ripe Wheat." It repre- 
sents a man mowing with his back toward the spectator. It 
is an excellent picture. 

Then there are two life-size paintings — " Haymaking " and 
"The Potato Diggers." 

What color! what drawing! what execution! There is the 
wealth of tones which is to be found only in nature itself. 
And the figures live! 

The coloring enchants you with its divine simplicity, and 
you gaze at the canvas in pure delight. 

I entered the room without knowing what was there, and I 
stopped short as my eyes rested upon " Haymaking," as one 
would stop at the unexpected sight of a lovely landscape 
through an open window. 

I can do no justice to the beauty of this picture. Bastien- 
Lepage is a hundred leagues above anyone else. No one can 
be compared to him. 



I am really ill, and I have applied an enormous blister to 
my chest. After that, doubt my courage and my desire to 
live, if you like. No one knows it except Rosalie; I walk 
about the studio, read, laugh and sing with something of my 
old beauty of voice. As I often do nothing on Sundays, it 
astonishes no one that I am idle to-day. 



746 * JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Tuesday, September iSt/i. — It appears that the interest the 
Russian press has shown in me has inspired a certain interest 
in everybody else, and among others in the Grand Duchess 
Catharine. Mamma is very intimate with her grand chamber- 
lain and his family, and they have spoken seriously of my being 
appointed to the post of lady of honor. But I must be pre- 
sented to the Grand Duchess first. The subject was much 
talked about; but mamma was wrong to return here, and let 
the matter progress without her. 

And then — my lofty soul demands a sister soul — I shall 
never have a woman friend. Claire says that I can never have 
a girl friend, because I have none of the little secrets and 
stories that a young girl usually has. 

" You are too good; you have nothing to hide." 

Wednesday, September 26th. — Now that the vexations are 
forgotten, I recall that my father had something good, original, 
and witty about him. He was thoughtless, and seemed frivo- 
lous and rude tO'many people. He was a little cold and tricky, 
perhaps; but who is without his faults? Have I myself none? 
I blame myself for my treatment of him, and it brings the tears 
to my eyes. 

Perhaps I should have gone to him. It would have been 
through a sense of what was proper, for I had no feeling about 
the matter. 

But would it have b.een a meritorious action? I think not. 

I had no feeling, and God will punish me for it; but is it my 
fault? And then, will the more softened sentiments I feel this 
evening be charged up to my credit? 

Are we responsible for the good or bad sentiments we really 
feel? 

One should do one's duty, you reply. It was not a question 
of duty. We were speaking of sentiments, and as I did not 
feel the necessity of going, how would God judge me? 

Yes, I regret that I did not feel the tenderness I do this 
evening. He is dead, and it is too late to repair my mistake. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 74? 

What would it have cost me to go and do my duty, for it was 
my duty to go to my dying father. I did not understand it at 
the time, but yet I do not feel wholly blameless; I did not do 
my duty, and I should have done it. I shall regret it forever. 
Yes, I did not do right, and I regret it; I am ashamed of 
myself, which is very painful for me to bear. I am not trying 
to excuse myself; but do you not think that mamma should 
have told me what to do? Well, yes, I know she was afraid 
of overtaxing my strength, and then the family reasoned in 
this way: " If Marie is with her mother, they will remain there 
six months; but if Marie remains here, her mother will return 
more quickly. " 

Alas! there is always some -secret influence at work, of which 
one knows nothing. 

Monday, October \st.— The body of our great writer, Tourgue- 
neff, who died a fortnight ago, was sent to Russia to-day. 
There was a grand ceremony of farewells at the station. There 
were speeches by Monsieur Renan, Monsieur About and 
Vyrouboff, a Russian who spoke French very well, and who 
moved me more than the others. About spoke very low, and 
I could scarcely hear him; but Renan, whom I recognized from 
Saint-Marceaux's bust, was excellent, and the last farewell was 
very powerful. Bogoliouboff also pronounced a eulogy. In 
short, I was proud to see a Russian honored by those horribly 
haughty Frenchmen. 

I love them, but I despise them. 

They let Napoleon die at Saint Helena. That was mon- 
strous — an abominable crime, an eternal shame to France' 

Rome, however, assassinated Caesar. 

And the French maltreated Lamartine, who, in antiquity, 
would have had altars raised to him, as Dumas the younger 
so justly remarks. 

And then I have another grudge against them, which is 
more personal: They have never recognized the genius of Bas- 
tien-Lepage. 



748 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

After the Tourgueneff ceremonials, we went to the Salon, 
and I can not see Bastien's pictures without my heart beating 
with enthusiasm — concealed of course; for if I should give 
voice to my enthusiasm, people would think I was in love with 
him. 

Meissonier! But Meissonier is only a cunning trickster. 
He makes microscopic things in a way to astonish you so 
much that it almost amounts to emotion. But when he 
attempts to do anything else — when his heads are more than a 
third of an inch long — he becomes harsh and ordinary; but 
people do not dare to say it and everybody admires him, 
although all his Salon pictures are simply fair and correct in 
their execution. 

But is this art? People, admirably dressed, playing on the 
piano or riding horseback? Why, there are many genre paint- 
ers who can do as well. 

The finest and most wonderful thing of his that I have seen 
is the " Ball Players," upon the highway of Antibes. It is 
a scene from real life, although the costumes are antique; it is 
full of air and sunlight, and it is so small and so wonderfully 
painted that it is simply astounding. 

The picture of himself and his father on horseback is also 
fine; and so is " The Engraver." The expression and pose 
are strong and true — this thinker and worker touches us 
and interests us, and the details are miraculous. There is 
also a picture of his of a cavalier of Louis XIII. 's time, look- 
ing out of a window; it is the same size as " The Engraver," 
and this is also human, natural, simple — a bit of life, in 
short. 

As far as his other pictures go, I class them in the ranks of 
good, careful, genre paintings; and, if it were not for the 
masterpieces I have cited, Meissonier would never have 
attained the celebrity he has. 

His portraits, when the head is only two-thirds of an inch 
long, are not bad; but, the larger they are, the worse they are. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASH KIRTSEFF. 749 

I salute him and pass on; he will never move me to enthu- 
siasm. But look at the portraits of Bastien-Lepage! The 
majority of people would cry out in deprecation, if I should 
say that they are infinitely better than Meissonier's; and yet it 
is an incontestable fact. 

But all envious people use old, recognized genius as a bat- 
tering ram to knock down those who seem dangerous to them. 
Nothing can be compared to the portraits of Bastien-Lepage. 
Deny the merit of his pictures, if you choose — you can not 
understand them; but his portraits! From the beginning of 
the world up to the present time, no one has done anything 
better. 

Saturday, October 6th. — That excellent, that good, that kind 
Robert-Fleury has been to see my picture. Excellent, good, 
and kind! You see from this, of course, that he did not scold 
me. His first words were, " That looks very well." 

I interrupted him at once. 

" No, Monsieur, I beg of you, do not flatter me. I do not 
wish it. That horrible Julian says that people flatter me; that 
I know nothing; that — " 

"But I ask your pardon, Mademoiselle; I have always 
treated you as an earnest pupil — as one who was entirely seri- 
ous in her work." 

"Monsieur Julian says that I know nothing; that — " 

"And you allow him to tease you?" 

And the charming man laughed aloud at my guilelessness. 

Well, this is what he said of the picture: V It is very good; 
there are parts of it that are exceedingly good" (I use his very 
words); parts that are, perhaps, as good as anything I shall 
ever, do. The boy on the right and the one in the foreground 
with his back turned are capital. But the background needs 
to be lightened up on the right, and that will improve the pic- 
ture enormously; my figures I must not touch, except to 
make two eyes a little less black. 

That will be a work of two hours. 



750 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I ought to be mad with joy, but I am not, because I do not 
share the opinion of my excellent master. I can do better. 
Do I mean that what I have done is not good? Well, not 
good enough. I can imagine something better, and I ought 
to be able to realize my conception. 

What will the public say? Is it a picture that will be talked 
about? How can I tell? Tony thinks that it is good. " Do 
not send it to Nice; keep it for Paris." He says that it is 
good; but if he means relatively good, I do not care for his 
praise. It is good for someone else; but for me, for all the 
world? Is it strong? He thinks the drawing of the boy with 
his back turned is perfect. " You can feel," he says, " that he 
has legs in his trpusers." 

He believes, perhaps, that I thought of the anatomical non- 
sense. 

I copied nature without thinking of anything else; besides, 
it seems to me that talent is unconscious. 

Saturday, October 6th. — I have been reading a novel by our 
illustrious Tourgueneff, in French, to learn the impression he 
makes upon foreigners. 

He was a great writer, a very subtle genius, and a very clear 
analyst; a poet, a Bastien-Lepage. His descriptions of scen- 
ery are beautiful, and he depicts the most delicate shades of 
sentiment as Bastien-Lepage paints them. 

What a sublime artist! 

Millet! Well, he is as poetical as Millet; I use this unfit 
comparison for the benefit of the imbeciles who would not 
otherwise understand me. 

All that is grand, poetical, beautiful, subtle, true in music 
or literature leads my thoughts to that marvelous painter, 
that poet, Bastien-Lepage. He takes subjects which would 
be considered vulgar by men and women of the world, and 
draws from them the deepest poetry. 

What more ordinary than a little girl watching a cow or a 
.voman working in the fields? 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. ?51 

Those subjects have been done before, you say. 

Well, but no one has done them as he has; he tells a story 
300 pages long on one bit of canvas. But there are, perhaps, 
only a dozen or so of us who understand him. 

Tourgueneff, also, depicted peasants — the poor Russian 
peasants — and with what truth, what frankness, what sincerity! 

It is touching, poetical, grand. 

Unfortunately, abroad that can not be understood, and it is 
his studies of society by which he is best known. 

Tuesday, October gth. — Bojidar's portrait seems to me to be 
good ; Julian says that it will, perhaps, be a great success; that it 
is quite new and original, and will appear like a skilled Manet. 

This seems amusing to me. He is leaning on the balcony, 
showing a front view of his body and his head in profile outlined 
against the sky; you can see the docks, the houses, the roofs, 
the street, and a cab; it is a correct copy of it all, but I would 
like something more. The figure is very correct, even for me. 

There are nasturtiums on the balcony. He is crumpling 
one of them in his fingers, as he looks out into the street; but 
I shall replace the flower with a cigarette; the other hand is 
in his pocket. It is life-size, half-length. There is a hand 
still to be done. 

About half-past 5, I caught an effect of the crescent moon 
in the sky still red from the sunset — exactly, exactly, exactly 
what I want for my " Holy Women." I made a hasty 
sketch at once; I shall have to paint parts of that picture 
from memory and intuition; it is impossible to obtain sittings, 
so to speak, from such a sky as that; lam very anxious to 
commence it at once; I can do it now'm three weeks. Let me 
see. The weather will be no worse at Concarneau in Novem- 
ber than in October, and then — One ought to do what one 
wants to do, and at the proper psychological moment. 

I have my sky, and I shall go to the South for the ground 
and the foliage. I have the model here. I must go to the South 
— but when? Let me see. When I have made the figures and 



752 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the sky — in two weeks, and, once there, perhaps I shall find 
some subjects for pictures, for I am not over-confident about 
the "Holy Women." It may succeed at once, and it may drag 
along for seven years. 

But that sky — oh, if it were to be a small picture! But 
no, I want it life-size; it will be more striking. 

Must I wait longer? Perhaps, for I have done well to wait 
as long as I have. A few months ago, if I had tried it, the 
execution would have been botched; I wanted to paint it by 
piecemeal, and I did not understand sufficiently the blending 
that should be given to it. And then I should like to be known 
first and send this picture under a well-known name, so that 
there would be no. risk about its being accepted. Who can I 
consult? Who will be frank? Who will be true? 

You, you, my only friend! You will be frank at all events, 
and you love me. Yes, I love myself, myself alone! 

Yes, I must finish the boys, have another picture to send 
with it, exhibit Bojidar in a winter exposition at the club and 
a portrait of Dina also. 

And I must have a statue. That is my dream, a dream 
possible of realization. 

Monday, October i$th. — We went to the Salon — the Gavinis, 
mamma, and I. Monsieur Gavini at last agreed with me to-day 
that the portraits of Bastien-Lepage are superior to those of 
Meissonier. It cost me six months' of discussion, but I am 
very well satisfied with the result. 

What do I care for the opinion of a man of the world upon 
painting? It is a little private triumph, and one loves to have 
one's ideas prevail. With the apostles this feeling became a 
passion, and that is still the case in some quarters; and when 
one is young one is full of fire; one wants to have one's enthu- 
siasms shared. Some day, I shall snap my fingers at all that, as 
I do already at certain things. 

And Bastien-Lepage will win over by it society people, who 
do not care much for him just now. I should like to be kind 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 753 

and useful to everybody, to play the part of Providence, to help 
people, to make them happy; and even, oh, wonder of wonders! 
without greatly desiring to be known in the matter. Why, I 
am an angel! 

Monday, October 22d. — I wish my consumption was imag- 
inary. 

It seems that there was a time when it was fashionable to be 
consumptive and people forced themselves to appear so, and 
believed that they were. Ah, if this were only imagination! 
I want to live, in spite of everything. I have no love troubles, 
no sentimental feeling — nothing of the sort! I should like to 
be celebrated and enjoy what good there is on this earth — my 
wants are so simple! 

Sunday, October 2%th. — I am wild that I have no pictures in 
preparation, and I say to myself: "Goto Fontainebleau," and 
then — "Why do that?" I could find quite near here a wooded 
place where I could go every morning in a cab, or why not 
paint the fog on the Seine? Or — well, in fact, I don't see any- 
thing clearly, and I don't know what I want. 

And why not go to Arcachon, which resembles the East, 
and where I should be able to paint the " Holy Women"? And 
at the same time I could make as many studies as anywhere 
else. And sculpture? If I go away, my statue will not be 
made. 

To get rid of this indecision, I am going to paint in a boat 
the fog upon the Seine. That will do me good. 

I have risen at i o'clock in the morning to say that I desired 
to paint something! I suffered from having no desires. 

It is a flame which blazes and blazes; it is like the unex- 
pected appearance of the one you love — an emotion, a warmth, 
a joy. 

I blush, all alone by myself. 

I want to paint a forest with the brilliant leaves and the 
marvelous tones of October, and with one or two figures in it. 
In the "Pere Jacques" of Bastien-Lepage, as I remember it, 
48 



754 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

the forest was represented too late in the season; it was leaf- 
less and gray. I want to make it red, green, and gold. 

And yet I shall not be at my best in that picture. In the 
" Holy Women '■ alone can I be that, and I do not dare to 
attempt them; I positively do not dare! 

I must go to sleep. 

Thursday, November ist. — I have been working at Grande- 
Jatte, an alley of trees with brilliant leaves, medium canvas. 
Bojidar went with me, fortunately; for I had forgotten that it 
was a holiday, and when w T e reached there we found a multi- 
tude of bargemen, and Rosalie as an escort would, perhaps, 
have been unequal to compelling respect. So that I could wan- 
der about and paint in that little fashionable island, I had 
dressed myself as an old German woman, with two or three 
pieces of woolen cloth to disguise my figure, a cloak bought 
for 27 francs, and over my head a large black woolen shawl. 
On my feet I wore low shoes. 

Friday, November 2d. — What I am doing is very pleasant. 
To-day, there was not even a cat to disturb me. On week 
days the island is deserted, especially at this season of the 
year. I hope I shan't fall ill from the exposure. 

I must paint one picture, after which I shall not paint any 
more out of doors this winter. It ought to be finished this 
month. It is very simple and very beautiful. I will wrap up 
well, and leave only my eyes uncovered. 

Monday, November $th. — The leaves have fallen and I do 
not know how to finish my picture. I have no luck. Luck! 
What a terrible thing! An inexplicable and frightful power! 

That picture in a boat! The canvas is before me, and I no 
longer know if I ought to finish it. 

Oh, yes — but quickly, quickly, quickly! In two weeks I will 
show it to Robert-Fleury and Jujian, who will be astounded. 

If I did that, it would mean new life to me. I suffer fright- 
ful remorse because I did nothing of any importance last 
summer. I should like to be able to define better my peculiar 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 755 

state of mind. I feel weakened, as if a great stagnation had 
stolen over me. I suppose that people who have been bled 
feel something like that. 

My path is laid out, up to the .month of May. Why should 
anything be changed in the month of May? Who knows the 
future? 

That makes me think of all the good and remarkable things 
that may happen to me, and I console myself for the present. 

I talked at dinner with my family; talked pleasantly and 
naturally, and in a very quiet and agreeable manner, as I did 
the first day that I put my hair up. 

In short, I feel very calm; I shall work peacefully. It seems 
that all my movements will be full of repose, and that I shall 
regard the universe with a gentle condescension. 

I am calm, as if I were, or because I am, talented, and I am 
as patient as if I were certain of the future. W T ho knows? 
Really, I am invested with a sort of dignity. I have confU 
dence in myself. I am a power. Then — what? At all events, 
love has nothing to do with the matter. No! But outside of 
that, I do not see anything that interests me. Mademoiselle, 
you must interest yourself in your art. 

Thursday, November 8f/i. — I read in a newspaper that, 
at the opening of the Industrial Exposition in the Rue de 
Seze, there was a great crowd present, including our grand 
dukes. I ought to have gone there, and I let the day go by. 

No, there is no use in struggling; I have no luck. And that 
has made me sing, accompanying myself on the harp. If I 
had been completely happy, I could not have worked, perhaps. 
They say that great artists have all suffered many hardships. 
My hardships are all those troubles which lead me always to 
the foot of art, my only reason for living. 

Oh, to become celebrated! 

When I imagine myself celebrated, it is like a great light — 
like the contact of an electric wire; I rise with a jump and 
commence to pace up and down the room. 



756 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

People would say that if I had been married at seventeen, I 
should be like all the rest of the world. But this is a grave 
mistake. To have married like any other girl, I should have to 
be like any other girl. 

Do you think that I have never been in love? / think so. 
Those passing fancies had the appearance of love, but they 
could not have been the real thing. Why do I continue to 
feel great weakness, like the distended cords of an instrument? 
Julian says that I remind him of an autumn landscape, a 
deserted pathway, full of fog and the desolation of winter. 

"That is exactly the way I feel, dear Monsieur." Father 
Julian sometimes speaks the truth. " Will you show your 
picture to the great man?" "I would sooner leap out of a 
fifth-story window." " That is a proof that you feel that it is 
not worthy of you, and that you can do better." 

Very true. 

Saturday, November 10th. — I would like to attribute a slight 
fever, caused by the winter wind on the Seine, to mental 
causes. 

I am working at home — at sculpture. 

My poor child, everything pushes you to the foot of art; do 
not despise these various signs; go there! Fame alone can 
give you what you want, and they say you can obtain it if you 
like. 

Sunday, November nth. — I dined this evening at Jouy; I 
think I am really fond of those people there. They are pleas- 
ant and intelligent. I almost take pleasure in seeing them, 
and it is not drudgery, as when I go to other places. 

Everything about me seems suddenly changed; everything 
is bright, calm, and beautiful. I know what I want to do, and 
all goes well. 

Monday, November 12th. — Drumont, of La Liberte, has been 
to see us. 

He detests my style of painting, but he paid me great com- 
pliments while confessing that he could not understand how 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 757 

I, surrounded by luxury and refinement, could care for what 
was ugly. He thought my " Street Boys " ugly. 

"Why did you not choose pretty faces? It would have 
been as easy." 

I choose expressive faces, if I may be allowed to say so. 
Besides, the. boys who run about the streets are not, as a rule, 
marvels of beauty; to find pretty children, one must go to the 
Champs Elysees and paint the poor little things who are all 
decked out with ribbons, and accompanied by governesses. 

Where can you find free action? Where is the wild primi- 
tive liberty? Where is real expression? Well brought-up 
children are always more or less affected. 

And then — Oh, well, I know that I am right. 

Saturday, November 17th. — The country makes one feel 
very strongly the beauty of pictures. 

The Parisians do not care much for the country; but they 
could not help doing so if they would only take the trouble 
to contemplate its grandeur, simplicity, beauty, and poetry. 
Every blade of grass, the trees, the ground, the looks of the 
women who pass by, the attitudes of the children, the manners 
of the old men, are all in the strictest harmony with the land- 
scape. 

Thursday, November 2 2d. — The Illustration Universelle of 
Russia publishes upon its first page an engraving of my pic- 
ture, "Jean and Jacques." 

It is the best illustrated Russian paper, and I feel at home 
to appear in it. 

But yet it causes me no delight. Why not? I am pleased 
my picture is there, of course; but I am not carried away with 
joy. 

Why not? Because a thing of that sort does not satisfy my 
ambition. If I had had a mention two years ago, I should 
have fainted away from happiness. If they had given me a 
medal last year, I should have wept on Julian's breast. 

But now — 



758 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

The course of events is logical, alas! All things are con- 
nected with and follow naturally each other, and everything 
is little by little prepared beforehand. A third-class medal 
next- year would seem my natural due. If I have nothing, I 
shall feel outraged. 

One feels keen delight only when the event is unexpected, 
when it is in some way a surprise. A second-class medal at 
the next Salon would make me very happy, because I do not 
expect it. But then, it is not the medal which is of jmpor- 
tance, but the more or less degree of success which accom- 
panies its award. 

Friday, November 23d. — Saturday, November 241/1.- — Some- 
thing very astonishing and very pleasant has happened to 
me. My " Angler," which I gave to the Ischia lottery, drifted 
to the Hotel Drouot, and formed part of a collection of vari- 
ous pictures. The husband of one of our maids told her, in 
astonishment, that a picture signed Bashkirtseff was at the 
Hotel des Ventes, and was to be sold this evening. Mamma 
and Dina went there, and were present when it was sold for 
130 francs. That sum does not make much impression upon 
you, probably; but it strikes me as immense. There was no 
frame, only a narrow band, which cost 20 francs, and, conse- 
quently, my picture sold for no francs at the Hotel Drouot. 
Mamma and Dina tried to make me believe that it was 230 
francs, but I saw that the 2 was a 1 in the catalogue. Dina 
told the princess and others that the price was 430 francs. 
Oh, sacred truth! It really was 130. Mamma and Dina 
could not get over it; Dina said that she thought everybody 
was looking at her, and mamma turned away her head in 
embarrassment. I can not believe it yet, it seems to me such a 
splendid thing. 

Wednesday, November 281/1. — I have painted Dina's portrait, 
a harmony in white, and it is superb. 

A young girl who was here yesterday, while rummaging 
through my portfolios, found an old drawing: " The Assassin- 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 759 

ation of Caesar." The subject seized hold of me. About 4 
o'clock I went out to catch the harmony of colors presented 
by the Aurora Borealis, which, for the last three days, has 
been visible in Paris. I took a cab, and painted as I drove 
about. I wanted only harmonies of coloring. That done, I 
returned home, and began eagerly to read Suetonius and 
Plutarch. Montesquieu adores the history of the assassina- 
tion as related by Plutarch. What a rhetorician he was! It 
is a careful and eloquent piece of writing; but Suetonius, in 
his recital of the same event, makes one shudder. It is an 
arraignment that sends cold shivers down the back. How 
great men live beyond the grave! At the end of many cent- 
uries, the stories of their lives and deaths make us tremble 
and weep. I wept for Gambetta. Every time that I read 
history I weep for Napoleon, Alexander, and Caesar. But 
Alexander died a natural death, while Caesar — 

I will paint that picture for myself for reasons of sentiment, 
and for the crowd because the subject is a Roman one, and 
there will be in it studies of anatomy and blood. Other 
reasons for painting this subject are: I am a woman, and 
women have never done anything classical on a large scale, I 
want to use my faculties of composition and drawing, and it 
will be very beautiful. 

One thing troubles me, however, and that is, the assassina- 
tion occurred within the Senate, and not outside; that is a 
difficulty the less, and I would like to encounter all difficulties. 
When I feel that I am attacking the most difficult things, I 
become suddenly very cold, very decided; I collect myself, I 
concentrate myself, and I reach much better results than in 
the undertakings which are within the reach of my inferiors. 

There is no need to go to Rome to paint the picture, and I 
will begin it as soon as — And yet, in the months of April 
and May, the spring tints are so exquisite that I intended to 
go to Argenteuil to paint the trees in bloom. There is so 
much to be done in life, and life is so short! I do not know 



760 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

if I have the time even to do all that I have already 
thought of. 

The "Holy Women;" the large bas relief, "Spring;" 
" Julius Caesar; " " Ariadne." It makes my head swim. I 
would like to do them all, and at once. And they will be done 
so slowly, each in its own turn, with delays, and moments of 
indifference and disenchantment. Life is logical, and events 
follow each other naturally. 

When I read how Brutus, pursued by phantoms, killed him- 
self, I unconsciously exclaimed aloud: "You have done well, 
low brute; you have done well, ignoble criminal!" 

To succeed with a large picture! Do not imagine that I 
am thinking of next year, or even the year after, but some 
time in the future. It would be such a glorious thing that I 
scarcely dare allow myself to dwell upon it. 

Saturday, December \st. — Have I made a mistake in my 
vocation? Who will give me back the best years of my life, 
which have been, perhaps, expended in pursuit of a will-o'-the- 
wisp? 

But there is an excellent answer to these doubts of my 
worser self, and that is that I have really nothing better to do; 
if I had taken a different course and lived like other people, I 
should have had to suffer too much. But then I should not 
have attained this mental development which has given me a 
superiority so burdensome to myself. Stendhal knew at least 
one or two beings who were capable of understanding him, 
while I am in a frightful position; everybody seems to me dull 
and flat, and those I once took to be people of intelligence 
now appear to me stupid. Have I become what is called a 
misunderstood being? No; but still it seems to me that I am 
right to be surprised and discontented when people believe of 
me things of which I am incapable, and which attack my 
dignity, my delicacy, and even my position in society. 

You see I want someone who would thoroughly understand 
me, to whom I could tell everything, and in whose words I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 761 

would recognize the reflection of my own thoughts. Well, 
my dear little girl, that would be love. 

Perhaps so, but without going so far, if I had one or two 
people who would judge me in an intelligent manner and to 
whom I could talk, that in itself would be very pleasant; but 
I know none. The only one was Julian, and he is drifting 
more an9 more away from me, He is at times even annoy- 
ing, when he begins his interminable teasing which has no 
point to it, especially when it has to do with questions of art; 
he does not understand that I see clearly, and that I wish to 
win success; he thinks, to use a vulgarism, that I am stuck on 
myself. 

However, he is still my confidant, at times. As to an 
absolute equality of sentiments, that does not exist unless 
one is in love. And yet is it not, on the contrary, that 
absolute equality which gives birth to love? One's other self! 
I believe that that expression, which has been so much abused, 
is a very correct one. 

My other self should be some one, of whom not a word, not 
a look, not even the tip of the ear, should be contrary to the 
idea which I have formed of him. I do not ask an impossible 
perfection, nor a being who would have nothing human about 
him; but I ask that his faults should be interesting ones, and 
such as would not lower him in my eyes; that he should be 
like the being I imagine, not an impossible divinity, but a man 
who would please me in everything, and in whom I should not 
suddenly discover some stupid, flat, unsatisfying, silly, cruel, 
false, or selfish trait. One blot, however small, would be suffi- 
cient to destroy all my interest in him, all my feeling for 
him. 

Sunday, December 2d. — In short, my heart is absolutely 
empty, empty, empty! But I need these day-dreams for my 
own amusement, and yet I have felt almost all those things of 
which Stendhal speaks, apropos of true love which he calls 
love-passion — those thousand follies of the imagination, all 



762 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

those childish caprices he mentions. Thus, I have often met 
with pleasure the most disagreeable people, because on that 
particular day they had chanced to be near the beloved object. 

Besides, I think that no one, man or woman, who is working 
constantly, and is preoccupied with thoughts of fame, can 
love like those who have nothing but love to think of. 

Balzac and Jules have both said something of the same 
kind; the total force of energy is a unit; if you spend it ail 
on the right, there is nothing remaining for the left, or the 
efforts are much less in either direction, as there are two 
objects instead of one. " If you send 500,000 men to the 
Rhine, they can not be at the same time before Paris." It is 
then probable that my tender sentiments are disappearing 
by reason of this theory. 

Monday \ December 3d. — I am intelligent; I give myself 
credit for wit and penetration — in short, for all qualities of the 
brain; and I am right to do so. Well, under these conditions, 
why can I not judge myself? Since my reasoning powers are 
clear and true, I ought to be able to do it. Have I really talent, 
and shall I ever make a name for myself in art? What is my 
opinion of my self 2 

These are terrible questions, because I think ill of myself 
when compared to the ideal to which I long to attain; but, on 
the other side, when I compare myself to others — 

One can not judge one's own self, and I especially can not- 
as I am not a genius, and have produced nothing yet to base a 
judgment upon. 

I am in despair in regard to my work; every time I finish any 
thing, I want to do it all over again, and I find it thoroughly 
bad, because I always compare it with what I would like it to 
be. But what I see around me consoles me; I see people who 
do worse and who are much admired! And then it all depends 
on my mood. In short, in my very heart, I do not think 
much of myself as an artist; I prefer to say that, in the hope 
that I may be mistaken. In the first place, if I thought T had 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 763 

genius, I would never complain of anything. But that word 
genius is so formidable that I laugh derisively as I write it in 
application to myself, even although I use it to say that I do 
not possess it. If I believed I possessed it, I should go mad! 
Well, I do not believe it, but I hope the world will. 

Monday, December 10th. — In the morning I devoted myself 
to sculpture. In the afternoon, I painted the waist and the bou- 
quet of my laughing head. The subject is a poor little thing, 
hsXi-danseuse, half-model, and she laughs in a very funny way. 
The picture is now finished. After the gas was lighted, I drew 
a woman reading near an open piano. Finished that. If 
every day were like this, it would be delightful. 

But fifty people who are never heard of do as much as I do, 
and do not complain that their genius stifles them. If your 
genius stifles you, you have none; those who possess it have 
the strength to support it. 

The word genius is like the word love; I found difficulty in 
writing it for the first time, but once written I have used it 
every day, and apropos of everything. It is the same way with 
all things which appear to you at first enormous, frightful, un- 
attainable. Once you reach them, you abandon yourself to 
them to make up for your former hesitation and fear. This 
witty observation does not seem to me to be very lucid, but I 
must expend my superfluous energy; I worked until 7 o'clock 
in the evening, but I have some of it left, and it must flow 
from the tip of my pen. 

I am growing thin. Well, may God be merciful to me! 

Tuesday, December nth. — In the morning I did nothing! In 
the afternoon, sketched in the head of a girl five years old, pro- 
file and laughing. I intend to paint five or six heads all laugh- 
ing, commencing with the head of a baby of eight months; then 
the little girl of this afternoon, then Armandine (Japhet's 
danseuse) full face, in a hat and a fur cape, with a bunch of 
violets on her shoulder; then I shall take a dude, gorgeously 
dressed and sucking his cane; then an innocent young girl; 



764 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

and, lastly, an old man and an old woman. All to be framed 
together! 

" Laughter is the attribute of man." These different laugh- 
ing faces might be effective. I will do them very quickly, as 
I did Armandine's, and they will do for some small exhibition. 

Sunday, December 23d. — True artists can not be happy. In 
the first place they know that the great mass of people do not 
understand them; they know that they work for a handful of 
individuals, and the rest follow their own bad tastes or the 
opinion of Figaro. The ignorance that pervades all classes, in 
regard to matters pertaining to art, is shocking. 

Those who speak understanding^ of art follow what they 
have read or heard said by people who are considered competent 
judges. 

I think that there are days when one feels all these things 
too acutely — days when vapid talk is peculiarly unbearable; 
when nonsensical speeches and actions make you suffer; when 
to listen for two hours to the exchange of asinine remarks, 
which do not possess even the merit of gaiety or worldly 
polish, is a positive affliction. 

Observe, I am not one of those choice souls who weep when 
they are forced to listen to the common-places of the Salon, its 
little affectations, its customary compliments, and its com- 
ments upon the weather and the Italian opera. I am not 
silly enough to demand interesting conversation everywhere, 
and all the common-places of society — sometimes gay, oftener 
dull — do not disturb my tranquillity, and I can listen to them 
sometimes, even with pleasure; but to listen to real folly, real 
stupidity, the lack of — in short, worldly common-places, spoken 
by brainless people — to listen to all this is like being roasted 
over a slow fire. 

Saturday, December 2gt/i. — Oh, misery! There are days 
which are black, sad, despairing; all these stories, all these 
things that have been said, thought — invented! 

But I have done nothing immoral! And when I think!! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 765 

Ah! my friends, lose everything, but keep up appearances! 

In short, these petty troubles make me profoundly unhappy. 

Paradoxical as it may sound, one is entirely right to do 
infamously wrong. 

And these little, contemptible, petty things, of which I am 
innocent, and which can not be trampled under foot. Oh, 
misery! 

There are sad, despairing, black days! I am loaded down 
with calumnies. 

And I have done no wrong, either to myself or to others. 
Claire and Villevieille work and I weep, writing at the other 
end of the library. 

There are days when one throws out light, and others when 
one is like an extinguished lantern. I am extinguished. 

Monday \ December 31^/. — The Marechale and Claire dined 
yesterday with the Princess Mathilde, and Claire told me that 
Lefebvre. said to her that I had undoubted talent; that I was a 
very uncommon person; that I went every evening into society, 
and, in addition to this, I was watched over, directed by a 
celebrated painter (this was said with a meaning look). 

Claire (looking him full in the face) — " What celebrated 
painter? Julian?" 

Lefebvre — "No; Bastien-Lepage." 

Claire — " But you are entirely mistaken, Monsieur; she goes 
out very little, and she works all the time. As for Bastien- 
Lepage, she sees him in her mother's salon, and he never goes 
up to her studio." 

Claire is a dear girl, and she spoke the truth, for God 
knows well that that wretched Jules gives me no help what- 
ever; and yet Lefebvre seemed to believe it! 

It is 2 o'clock. The new year has begun, and at midnight, 
at the theatre, with my watch in my hand, I made a wish in 
one single word; a word which is beautiful, sonorous, magnifi- 
cent, intoxicating, whether written or spoken: Fame! 



1884. 



Wednesday, January 2d. — My aunt Helene, my father's 
sister, died a week ago. Paul telegraphed the news to us. 

And now we have received another dispatch to-day. My 
Uncle Alexander has died of an attack of apoplexy. We were 
greatly shocked. The poor man adored his family, and was 
madly in love with his wife. 

As he had never read Balzac, nor perhaps any other novel- 
ist, he did not know the proper phrases of sentiment; but I 
remember some things that he said, and the recollection of 
which makes my grief all the deeper. Some one tried to make 
him believe that his wife was receiving the attentions of a 
neighbor, and I remember to have heard him say: "Well, sup 
pose this infamous thing were true! Is not my wife, whom I 
married when she was fifteen, my own flesh, my own blood 
my own soul? Are we not<?/z<?? If I had done wrong, would 
I not forgive myself? How would it be possible not to forgive 
my wife? Why, it would be the same as if, to punish myself, 
I put out one of my eyes or cut off an arm." 

And then, during my last visit to Russia, he said to me: " I 
don't know exactly how to explain to you what I want to say, 
my little Marie, but you are so bright that you will under- 
stand. Formerly, I had so many things to occupy my atten- 
tion, so many worries, such a thirst to acquire money and 
become rich, that I did not think of my wife as I should have 
done; but now that my business affairs are wound up, I have no 
longer those dry and absorbing details to contend with, and 
I think now only of happiness, and how to grant the smallest 
desires of my wife, my dear, adored Nadine. Yes, now all is 

(766) 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 767 

different; it would take too long to tell you, but all is different." 

He leaves three children: Etienne, who is sixteen; Julie, 
fifteen, and Alexander, eight or ten months. 

And his poor wife is only thirty-three! 

Friday, January ^th. — There is no doubt about it; I have 
consumption, and it is growing worse. 

I am ill; no one knows anything of it, but I have fever 
every evening, and everything goes badly, and I hate to speak 
of it. 

Saturday, January $th. — The opening of the Manet exhibi- 
tion at the Ecole des Beaux Arts. 

I went with mamma. 

It is only a year since Manet died. I did not know much 
about him. Taken as a whole, the exhibition is a remarkable 
one. 

It is incoherent and childish, yet grand. . 

There are some absurd things, but also some superb pic- 
tures. A little more, and he would have been a great genius. 
His subjects are almost always ugly, sometimes deformed, but 
they are always living. There are some splendid sketches 
among them. 

And in the worst things, one feels a certain something that 
makes one look at them without disgust or weariness. They 
reveal such an extraordinary self-confidence, united to an 
ignorance no less extraordinary. It is like the infancy of a 
genius. And then, they are things borrowed almost entirely 
from Titian (the sketch of the woman and the negro, for 
instance), Velasquez, Courbet, and Goya. But all these 
painters stole from each other. Take Moliere, too. He pla- 
giarized entire pages, word for word; I am a reader, and I 
know it. 

Tuesday, January St/i. — Dina sits well, but there is some- 
thing which shows that she does not feel the pose, and her 
whole expression changes although she does not move. I 
would far rather have a woman who moved a great deal, but 



768 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

who now and then caught the exact expression. Well, it little 
matters; it isn't good, that's all! 

As I will not yield to bad luck, I have a frightful struggle 
with myself; my rage reaches such a point that I appear extraor- 
dinarily calm, and my movements are as slow as those of an 
invalid, while I am crazy to break and tear everything to pieces. 

Monday, January i^th. — I feel as if I had been to Dam- 
villers. Emile Bastien has told us all about it — his brother's 
new picture, his manner of living, etc. He does nothing 
secretly, he has forbidden no one to speak, he — If he has 
not invited us to see his pictures at Concarneau, it is because 
he never invites anyone to see them; he would think even 
that it would be conceited to invite anyone to see pictures 
painted off-hand at Concarneau, where he went for rest, and 
that the very kind way he was treated at our house should 
make ceremony unnecessary. He would have been delighted if 
we had come, etc. He says that even to see his important 
pictures he issues no invitations; he only tells his humble 
brother to inform certain friends. But this is something more 
serious; when his brother spoke to him of my picture, he said 
to him: " Why did not you tell me about it in Paris? I would 
have gone to see it." 

" I said nothing to him in Paris," continued his brother, 
" because, if he had come, you would have hidden everything, 
as usual; he knows nothing of what you are doing outside of 
your Salon pictures. You turn your canvases to the wall — in 
short, do you know he will never want to see your pictures if 
you act like that?" 

" He will if I wish it, if I ask advice from him." 

" He will always be delighted to give it to you." 

"But I am not his pupil, unfortunately." 

"Why should you not be? He would ask nothing better; 
he would be very much nattered if you would consult him, 
and he'would give you sensible, disinterested advice; for his 
judgment is excellent and unprejudiced, and he would be 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 769 

happy to have an interesting pupil. Believe me, he would be 
flattered and delighted. " 

Wednesday, January 16th. — The architect has told me that 
among his brother's numerous projects for pictures is one to 
represent the " Shepherds at Bethlehem." 

For the last few dajs my head has been filled with the sub- 
ject, and this afternoon I seemed to see the picture clearly as in 
a vision. Yes, the "Shepherds at Bethlehem." A sublime sub- 
ject, and which he will render more sublime still. 

Yes, my vision was so clear, and I received from it such a 
distinct impression that I can compare it only to the vision of 
the shepherds themselves — holy enthusiasm and profound 
admiration. 

For the last two or three hours my admiration has made me 
madly in love. Can you understand that? 

Can you imagine all the mystery, tenderness, and superb 
simplicity he will put into the picture? One who knows 
his work can do so, by noticing the mysterious and fantastic 
resemblance between "Joan of Arc" and " Evening in the 
Village," the effect of which will in some way be reproduced 
in the " Shepherds." Ah! but don't you find it delightful of 
me to grow enthusiastic over pictures I have never seen, and 
which do not exist? Pshaw! let me be ridiculous in the eyes 
of the majority; two or three dreamers will feel with me, and, 
if need be, I could do without even them. " Joan of Arc " 
was never appreciated in France, but it was enthusiastically 
received in America. " Joan of Arc " is a masterpiece, both 
in sentiment and workmanship. 

You should have heard Paris speak of it. It was a shame! 

Is it possible that only " Phsedras " and "Auroras " are to 
be crowned with success? Moreover, has the public always 
cared for Millet, Rousseau, or Corot? No; they admired them 
after they became the fashion. 

What is most shameful in our day is the hypocrisy of 
enlightened people, who profess to believe that this art is not 

49 



770 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

serious, nor elevated, and who burn incense before those " who 
follow the traditions of the masters." Is there any need to 
dwell upon and explain the stupidity of such ideas? What, 
then, is high art, if it be not the art which, while painting flesh, 
hair, garments, trees, to perfection, so that they seem absolute 
reality, paints at the same time souls, minds, existences? 
"Joan of Arc," they say, is not high art, because she is 
depicted as a peasant in her natural surroundings, and not 
with white hands and clad in armor. 

No; his " Evening in the Village " is inferior to " Joan of 
Arc," and idiotic or dishonest critics praise it in order to make 
it appear that his talents are confined to one style; and they 
are furious that this man, who has been a painter of peasants, 
should dare to paint anything else, even an historical peasant 
like Joan of Arc. 

Hypocrites and Pharisees! 

For, after all, any one of us artists, no matter who, can 
paint flesh; but we have not the subtle, divine afflatus which 
he and he alone possesses. In the eyes of his figures I can 
see their lives, and it seems to me as if I knew them. I have 
endeavored to feel the same thing when looking at the pictures 
of other artists, and I have not succeeded. 

Would you prefer the execution of Lady Jane Grey or a 
Bajazet to the animated, living glance of a little girl running 
along the street? 

This incomparable artist possesses a quality which is found 
only in the religious paintings of the Italians, when the artists 
painted and believed at the same time. 

Has it never happened to you, when alone in the country in 
the evening, under a very clear sky, to feel troubled, pervaded 
by a mysterious sentiment, by aspirations toward the infinite; 
to feel as if you were, so to speak, on the eve of some great 
event — something supernatural? And have you never had 
day-dreams, which transported you into unknown worlds? 

If you have not, you will never comprehend Bastien-Lepage, 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 771 

and I advise you to purchase an " Aurora" of Bouguereau's, 
or an historical picture by Cabanel. 

And all this, my dear, means that you adore the genius of 
little Bastien? 

Yes. 

So, now, that you are satisfied on that point I will go to bed. 
Amen! 

Sunday, January 20th. — It is a sad thing, but I have no 
woman friend; I care for no one, and no one cares for me. 

If I have no friend, I know perfectly well that it is because, 
in spite of myself, I allow it to be too clearly seen that "I 
look down upon the crowd." 

No one likes to be humiliated. I might console myself by 
thinking that the lofty intellects of this world have never been 
loved. People crowd about them and bask in the rays of 
their genius, but at heart, they hate them, and, whenever they 
have an opportunity, slander them. At present, the question 
of a statue to Balzac is being agitated, and the journals are 
publishing every day anecdotes and incidents of his life, gath- 
ered from the lips of the great man's friends. Heaven save 
us all from such friends as they have proved themselves to be — 
friends who divulge every mean, ridiculous, and low trait! 

I prefer enemies; they would not be so widely believed. 

Saturday, February 23d, — The Marechale and Claire arrived 
about 1 o'clock to receive Madeleine Lemaire, who came 
to see the picture. She is a celebrated water-color artist, and 
a woman of the world besides; but she obtains large prices for 
her pictures. Naturally, she said only flattering things. 

And I am in a thoroughly bad temper. Probably because I 
am soon to die, my life comes back to me from the beginning 
in all its details. I remember stupid things, which bring the 
tears to my eyes; I never went to balls as often as other girls — 
three or four balls a year, that was all; I could have gone often 
in the last two years, but those things no longer had the power 
to amuse me. 



772 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And it is the great artist who regrets that? Yes. And now? 
Well, now there are other things than balls that I long for; 
those reunions where one meets thinkers, writers, artists, 
singers — the whole world of intellect, in fact. 

The most philosophical and most sensible person m the 
world need not be ashamed to want to meet, once a week or 
twice a month, the people who are the flower of Parisian intel- 
ligence. I talk about longings now — why, I know not, for I 
am going to die. I have always been unfortunate in every- 
thing. On account of my work, I have become acquainted 
with the best people in Paris, but that has turned out to be 
only one humiliation the more. 

I am too unhappy not to hope that there is a God Who can 
take pity upon me if He wants to. But, if such a God 
existed, would He allow things to be as they are? What have 
I done that I should be so unhappy? 

No reading of the Bible would ever make me believe. That 
is only an historical document, where all that relates to God 
is told in a silly and childish way. 

I can believe only in a God Who is an abstract, philosophi- 
cal God; a great mystery; the earth, the heavens, the universe — 
Pan. 

But that is a God Who can do nothing for us. That is a 
God Whom one can imagine and admire when looking at the 
stars and reflecting on scientific, spiritualistic, Renan-like 
questions. But the God I long to believe in is One Who sees 
everything, Who interests Himself in everything, and of 
Whom we can ask everything. But if this God existed, would 
He allow things to be as they are? 

Tuesday, March nth. — It is raining. It is not that alone 
that makes me depressed, but I am worse, and it is all so unjust. 
Heaven is too cruel to me! 

But I am still of an age when one finds happiness even in 
the thought of death. 

It seems to me that no one loves everything so much as I 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 773 

do — art, music, painting, books, society, dress, luxury, excite- 
ment, tranquillity, laughter, sadness, melancholy, idle chatter, 
love, cold, sunshine; all seasons, all atmospheric conditions; 
the quiet plains of Russia and the mountains about Naples; 
the snow of winter, the rains of autumn, the spring and its 
changes, the calm days and beautiful starlight nights of 
summer — I love and admire all Everything presents itself to 
me under an aspect either interesting or sublime. I should like 
to see everything, to possess everything, to embrace every- 
thing, to become absorbed in everything, and to die, since die 
I must, in two years or thirty years; to die in an ecstasy of joy 
at the thought of solving the last mystery, the end of all 
things or the divine beginning. 

This universal love is not the result of being a consumptive; 
I have always possessed it, and I remember that just ten years 
ago, in 1874, I wrote: 

" In vain would I choose; all seasons are beautiful. 

" I want all; a portion would not satisfy me. 

" Everything pales into insignificance before the beauties of 
nature. 

"In fact, everything in life pleases me; I find everything 
agreeable; and, while demanding happiness, I find happiness 
in being miserable. My body weeps and laments, yet some- 
thing within me, which is stronger than I am, rejoices at 
it all." 

That good Tony Robert-Fleury dined with us this evening. 
He says that my picture of the gamins is greatly improved; in 
short, that it is very good, and that it will be accepted at the 
Salon, 

I forgot to say that the picture is to be called " A Meeting, ' 
Wednesday, March 12th.— Dina's portrait will not be finished, 
so I shall send only the " Meeting." There was a friendly 
gathering at Madame Hochon's this evening; many artists 
and a few ladies like the Duchess d' Uzes, the Countess Cornet, 
the Marechale, and ourselves. Among the artists were Cabanel, 



774 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Jalabert, Siebert, G. Ferrier, and Boulanger. We had a 
little music, and Salvayre played and sang some airs from his 
" Henri III." All these people, not excepting Cabanel, were 
very cordial to me. 

Saturday, March i$th. — Abbema came to see my picture 
this morning. 

I thought the 15th would never come. The weather is 
exquisite, and on Monday or Tuesday I am going into the 
country to work. I will no longer admire Bastien-Lepage; I 
scarcely know him, his nature is so — reserved; and then it is 
much better to work with what talent one has than to waste 
one's admiration on the talent of others. 

Sunday, March 16th. — The pictures have been sent. 

I returned home at half-past 6 so fatigued and exhausted 
that the sensation was delightful. You can not think how 
thoroughly I enjoy extreme sensation; even overpowering pain 
is a delight. 

Once, when I crushed my finger, the pain was so keen for 
half an hour that I enjoyed it. 

So it was with the thorough fatigue of this evening, when, 
with all my muscles relaxed, and my limbs heavy, I lay in the 
bath and afterward in bed, my brain full of incoherent, shad- 
owy things; I went to sleep murmuring aloud disjointed 
words suggested by the confused thoughts that flitted through 
my head — Cabanel, varnishing day, the Marechale, Breslau, 
painting, Algeria, the line, Wolff! 

Wednesday, March igth. — I have found an orchard at Sevres 
to paint in, and I did not return home until 8 o'clock — worn 
out. We had company to dinner. , 

Yesterday, the balloting for members took place at the 
club of Russian artists. I was unanimously elected. 

Claire saw a gentleman to-day who told her that he had 
been to see Bastien-Lepage and found him very ill; and the 
next day he met the doctor, who said: "The man is very ill, 
but I do not think it is rheumatism; the trouble is here," and 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 775 

he tapped himself on the stomach. So, then, he is really ill! 
He went to Blidah three or four days ago, accompanied by 
his mother. 

Saturday, March 22a 1 . — I have not yet begun work at Sevres, 
but my preparations are all made. 

Julian writes: " Your picture has been accepted and will 
receive a number three, at least." 

What does that at least signify? 

God be thanked! But I never doubted that my picture 
would be received. 

Monday y March 2\th. — For some days past there has been 
something discordant in my surroundings, which has driven 
me to solitude and made me see myself as I really am, so — 
but no, it is all too sad for me to complain. I am heavy, 
dull, and stupefied. 

I have been re-reading a book which I read some years ago 
and did not particularly care for, but which now I greatly 
admire. I speak of " Madame Bovary." The literary style 
of the book, its execution, so to speak, is perfect. But the 
style is far from being its only merit. 

In the midst of these clouds which surround me, I see more 
clearly the realities of life — realities so harsh and so bitter that 
the tears will fall as I write them. But I can not even write 
them. And then, what is the use? What is the use? I have 
spent six years in working ten hours a day, to gain what? A 
meagre knowledge of art and a fatal disease. I have been to 
see my doctor to-day, and I talked so pleasantly that he said: 
"What good spirits you always have!" 

If I persist in hoping that " fame " will repay me for all, I 
must live, and to live I must take care of myself. 

Here are both dreams and frightful realities! 

One never believes in any trouble until it actually comes. 
I remember when, as quite a little girl,. I took my first journey 
on the railway, and for the first time in my life came into con- 
tact with strangers. I had taken my place, and filled up two 



776 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

seats with all sorts of objects, when two travelers entered. 
" These places are taken," said I, coolly. " Oh, very well," said 
one of the gentlemen, " I will call the conductor." 

I thought this was an unmeaning threat, such as I had been 
used to at home, and no words could describe the cold chill 
that seized me when the conductor cleared the seat, which 
the gentleman immediately occupied. This was my first 
reality. 

For a long time I have been threatened with a serious 
disease, but I have never believed in it. Ah, well! I would 
not have had time to tell you all this if I had not been waiting 
for my model, and grumbling is better than doing nothing. 

The March wind is keen and the skies are gray and 
lowering. 

I began yesterday quite a large picture in the old orchard 
at Sevres. The subject is a young girl seated under an apple 
tree in full bloom; a path leading off into the distance, and 
everywhere the branches of all sorts of blossoming fruit trees; 
a very fresh, green turf, sprinkled with violets and little yellow 
flowers. The girl sits in revery with half-closed eyes, her 
chin in the palm of her left hand and her elbow upon her 
knee. 

The treatment of the picture must be very simple, and the 
spectator must be made to feel the breath of spring-time 
which makes the girl dreamy. There will be sunshine stream- 
ing through the branches. It is to be about five feet wide 
and a little more in height. 

So, then, my picture has received only a number three, and I 
am not to be on the line — not even that. 

It has deeply and hopelessly discouraged me, but it is no 
one's fault; it is simply my lack of talent. Yes, this occur- 
rence has shown me, beyond any doubt, that if I ceased to 
have any belief in my £rt I should die at once. And if my 
hopes of success are again put to flight, as they were this 
evening, there will be nothing left for me but death. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK IRTSEFF. 777 

Thursday, March 27 fh. — I am very busy with my pictures. 
Why have I not yet succeeded in doing anything in painting 
as good as my pastel of three years ago? 

Monday, March 31st. — Almost nothing done; my picture 
will be badly hung, and I shall receive no medal. 

I stayed in a warm bath for more than an hour, which brought 
on a slight hemorrhage. That was foolish, you will say. Very 
likely, but I have no longer any sense; I am discouraged and 
half mad with my fruitless struggles against everything. 

There is nothing to be said, nothing to be done. If this 
state of affairs continues, I may live a year or so; but if my 
mind were at rest, I might live twenty years longer. 

Yes, that number three is difficult to swallow. Zilhardt and 
Breslau received number two. Why not I ? There were 
forty judges, and it seems that I received so many votes for 
number two that everyone thought I would get it. Let us 
suppose that I had fifteen votes for it, and twenty-five against 
it; the committee is composed of fifteen or twenty men of 
note, and twenty unknown intriguers, who paint atrocious 
pictures. Everyone knows this to be a fact. Nevertheless, 
it is a frightful blow to me, but it has not blinded me to the 
truth of the matter, and I see myself as I am. No, there is 
nothing to be said. I begin to feel that if my picture had 
been very good — 

Ah! never, never, never have I touched the depths of 
despair as I have to-day. As long as there is something lower, 
there is still hope, but to set foot on the black and slimy 
bottom of the gulf; to say: It is not circumstances that are to 
blame, nor my family, nor the world, but my own lack of tal- 
ent — ah! that is too horrible, and there is no power, human or 
divine, that can help me. I do not see how it will be possible 
, for me to go on with my work; everything seems at an end. 

Then this is an extreme sensation? Yes. Well, according 
to the theories you propounded the other day, you ought to 
find it an enjoyment. I am caught in my own trap! 



778 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

But I don't care. I am going to take some bromide, which 
will put me to sleep. And then, God is great, and there 
always arrives some little consolation after great troubles. 

And to think that there is no one to whom I can tell all 
this, that I can not even have the consolation of talking over 
my troubles — no, there is no one, no one! 

Blessed are the simple minded; blessed are they who believe 
in a good God, to Whom they can appeal! What have I to 
appeal to Him for? Because I have no talent? 

You see, therefore, this is a supreme sensation; this is the 
very depths of misery; and I ought, therefore, to enjoy it. 

Perhaps I should if there were any spectators of my misery. 

The sorrows of people who afterward become celebrated 
are related by their friends, for they have friends — people to 
whom they talk. I have none. And even if I should utter 
my lamentations, if I should declare to those about me: 
" No, I will paint no more! " what difference would it make? 
No one would be the loser, for I have no talent. 

But of all the things I must keep to myself and impart to 
no one, the worst, the most humiliating, is this: to feel, to 
believe, to know that I am nothing! If this were to continue, 
I could not live. 

Tuesday, April \st. — It continues, but as I had to find some 
comfort I have taken this — I may be mistaken. I have shed 
so many tears that I can no longer see clearly. 

They say to me: Oh, the number does not amount to any- 
thing; no one notices that. 

Yes, but the place in which it is hung? 

Wednesday, April 2d. — I went to Petit's (the exhibition in 
the Rue de Seze), and remained for an hour before the won- 
derful pictures of Bastien-Lepage and Cazin. 

Then I went to Robert-Fleury's, and with a gay, uncon- 
cerned air, asked: 

"Well, Monsieur, how did things go at the committee?" 

" Oh, very well. When your picture was passed, they said 



JOURNAL OF MARIE P, ASHK1RTSEFF. 779 

— not one or two of them, but several: "Stay, that is good; 
that must have a number two." 

"Oh, Monsieur, is it possible?" 

"Yes, indeed; I don't say so to give you pleasure; it is 
really so. Then they voted, and if the president had not 
been flustered that day, you would have had number two. 
Your picture was considered good, and was very favorably 
received." 

" But I have a number three?" 

" Yes, but that is due to a misfortune. It is simple ill- 
luck. You should have had a number two." 

" But what fault do they find with the picture?" 

"None." 

" None? It is not bad, then?" 

" It is good." 

"But, then?" 

" It is a misfortune, and that is all. Now, if you could 
find a member of the committee to ask that it be hung on the 
line, it would be done; for it is good." 

" Could not you?" 

" I am simply a member of the committee, whose duty it is 
to see that the order of the numbers is respected; but if any 
other member asks it, be sure I will not oppose it." 

I then went to see Julian, who laughed a little at Robert- 
Fleury's advice, and said that I need not worry much, and 
that he would be very much astonished if I were not on the 
line. And then, Robert-Fleury told me, on his word of honor, 
that I deserve it, and that, morally speaking, I have it. Mor- 
ally speaking! And he said, too, that it would be only justice. 

Ah! no; to ask as a favor what is my right would be too 
much! 

Friday, April \th. — Bastien-Lepage's exhibition is, no doubt, 
a brilliant one; but the pictures are almost all old ones. They 
are: i. A portrait of Madame Drouet, of last year; 2. Another 
portrait of 1882; 3. A landscape with two washerwomen, and 



780 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

an apple tree in bloom, also of 1882; 4. His picture for the 
concours, which was awarded the Prix de Rome (he was awarded 
only the second Prix de Pome), of 1875; and then, of last 
summer, there is a sketch made at Concarneau: " The Pool of 
Damvillers. ,, That makes five. 6. " The Wheat, or the 
Mowers," where only the back of one little mower is to be 
seen. An old beggar gathering wood in a forest makes seven. 
" The Pool of Damvillers," the mowers, and the beggar are full 
of sunlight. If there are many landscape painters as fine as 
Bastien-Lepage, I shall be astonished to know it. 

But a great artist can have no specialty. I know that I have 
seen at Bastien -Lepage's an " Andromeda," which, although 
small, is as fine a study of the nude as anyone could make. 
Precision, character, nobility of form, grace, delicacy of tone, 
it possesses all these, and, moreover, the execution is both 
broad and delicate; in short, it is nature itself. When he 
wished to show an effect of twilight, he painted " Evening in 
the Village," which is a real masterpiece. The poetical touch, 
a la Millet, was perhaps overdone. I say a la Millet to make 
my meaning understood; for Bastien is himself, and if Millet 
has painted evening and moonlight scenes, that is no reason 
why others should not do the same. 

The effect of " Evening in the Village " is magical. Why 
did I not buy it? 

He has painted also views of London, with the Thames, 
where you can positively see the flow of the water — that heavy, 
thick water, which seems to turn over and over, as it were. 
His small portraits are exquisitely beautiful — as beautiful as the 
small portraits of the old masters. And the life-size portrait 
of his mother is unsurpassable in execution; for it is nature 
itself, no matter how closely it is examined. Finally, his 
" Joan of Arc " is an inspiration of genius. 

Bastien-Lepage is thirty-five. Raphael died at thirty-seven, 
having painted more pictures than Bastien-Lepage has yet 
produced. But Raphael, from the age of twelve, was caressed 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 181 

and patronized by duchesses and cardinals, who made him 
work with the great Perugino; and Raphael, at fifteen, made 
copies of his master's pictures that could not be distinguished 
from the originals, and thenceforward was a great artist. Then, 
in those great pictures which astonish us as much on account 
of the time it must have taken to paint them as by their fine 
qualities, the largest part of the work was done by pupils, and 
in many of them there is nothing of Raphael except the gen- 
eral outlines. 

And Bastien-Lepage, in his earlier days, made his living by 
sorting letters in the Paris post office. He exhibited his first 
picture in 1869, I think. 

In short, he had neither duchesses, nor cardinals, nor 
Perugino. But he took all the village prizes for drawing, and 
he was only about fifteen or sixteen when he came to Paris. , 

But he had more advantages than I, who have always lived 
in surroundings little favorable to art, taking a few lessons in 
my childhood, as all children do, and then fourteen or fifteen 
lessons of an hour each, in the space of three or four years. 
That gives me six years and a few months of study; but there 
were always journeys and a serious illness to interfere. And 
what have I accomplished? Have I progressed as far as Bas- 
tien had in 1874? That question is pure insanity. 

If I should say in society, or even in the presence of artists, 
what I write of Bastien, people would say that I was entirely 
mad, some from conviction, and others on principle, in order 
not to admit the superiority of so young an artist. 

Saturday, April $th. — These are my plans: 

I will first finish my Sevres prcture. Then I will apply 
myself seriously to sculpture in the morning, and to study of 
the nude in the afternoon. That will take me into July. In 
July I will begin " The Evening," which is a long, treeless 
road, stretching across a plain, and fading in the distance into 
a sunset sky. Upon the road is a cart, to which two oxen are 
attached; the cart is loaded with hay, on top of which is 



782 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

lying an old man, face downward, his chin in his hands. The 
profile stands out in relief against the sunset. The oxen are 
led by a small boy. 

This ought to be simple, impressive, poetical, etc. 

When I have finished this, and two or three little things, I 
will go to Jerusalem, where I will pass the winter, and devote 
myself to painting and the recovery of my health. 

And in a year from now Bastien will proclaim me a great 
artist. 

I write all this down, for it is interesting to see afterward 
how our plans turn out. 

Sunday, April 6th. — My aunt left for Russia this evening. 

Saturday, April 12th. — Julian writes that the picture is hung 
on the line. 

Wednesday, April 16th. — I go every day to Sevres. My 
picture has taken copiplete possession of me. The apple tree 
is in blossom; all about are sprouting leaves of delicate green, 
and the sunshine plays on the lovely spring verdure. The 
grass is full of violets and yellow flowers like stars. The air 
is redolent of perfume, and the young girl who lies dreaming 
at the foot of the tree is " languid and intoxicated," as Andre 
Theuriet says. 

Tuesday, April 29th. — To-morrow is varnishing day, and as 
early as possible I shall see the Figaro and the Gaulois. What 
will they say of me? Will it be good, bad, or nothing at all? 

Wednesday, April 30th. — The disaster is not complete, for 
the Gaulois speaks very well of me. It gives me a separate 
notice. It is very nice, for it is written by Fourcaud, the 
Wolff of the Gaulois-, and, as the Gaulois appears with a plan 
of the Salon, the same as the Figaro, it seems to me that that 
fact gives it an equal or almost equal importance. 

The Voltaire, which publishes a number of the same sort, 
treats me like the Gaulois. Both are very important notices. 

The Journal des Arts also speaks of me, and the Intran- 
sigeant treats me as well. The other journals will have 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

criticisms from day to day. The Figaro, the Gaulois, and the 
Voltaire are the only ones that give elaborate notices as early 
as varnishing day. 

Am I contented? That is an easy question to answer. Not 
too much nor too little. 

There is just enough to keep me from being unhappy — that 
is all. 

I have just come from the Salon. We went there at noon, 
and stayed until 5 o'clock, an hour before closing — I have 
a headache. 

We remained for a long time on a bench opposite my picture. 

It attracted considerable attention, and I laughed as I 
thought not one of the crowd could imagine that the artist 
was the elegantly dressed young girl who sat opposite, show- 
ing the tips of her pretty little shoes. 

Ah! all this is much better than it w T as last year. 

Is it a success — I mean a veritable, serious success? 

Upon my word, I think so. 

Breslau exhibited two portraits. I saw only one of them, 
and it greatly surprised me. It was an imitation of Manet, 
and I aid not like it. She has not improved. What I am 
going to say is frightful, perhaps; but the truth is I am not 
sorry; neither am I pleased. There is room for everybody; 
still, I confess that I prefer to have things as they are. 

Bastien-Lepage sends only his little picture of last year — 
"The Forge." 

It is an old blacksmith in the obscurity of his shop. It is 
as good as the darkest little canvases of the famous gal- 
leries. 

He is not well enough yet to work. The poor architect 
looks sad, and says that he is going to throw himself into the 
river. 

I also am sad; and I think that, in spite of my painting, my 
t sculpture, my reading, and my music — yes, in spite of all that, 
I am bored, 



784 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Saturday, May $d. — Emile Bastien-Lepage came at half- 
past ii, and I went down to see him, greatly surprised at his 
call. 

He had a host of pleasant things to tell me. I have really 
made a great success, 

u I do not mean compared with your previous work, or with 
that of your fellow-students, but with that of everybody. I 
saw Ollendorff yesterday, and he said that if it were the work 
of a Frenchman the government would buy it. 'Ah! that 
Monsieur Bashkirtseff is a very talented man (the picture is 
signed M. Bashkirtseff).' Then I told him that you were a 
young girl, and, I added, pretty also. No! he would not 
believe it; and everyone is speaking of the picture as a great 
success.'' 

Ah! I begin to believe it a little. For fear of believing too 
much, I have allowed myself to feel only the most moderate 
satisfaction. 

I shall be the last to believe that I have been successful; 
but it appears that I really have. 

"A real and very great artistic success," said Ermle Bas- 
tien. 

Then as great a success as Jules Bastien in 1874 or 1875? 
Ah, if it were! I am not yet overwhelmed with joy, because 
I scarcely believe it. 

I want to be overwhelmed with joy. 

My excellent friend, Emile Bastien, asked me to sign a per- 
mission for Charles Baude, the engraver, and an intimate 
friend of his brother's, to photograph and engrave my picture 
for the Monde Illustre. 

He also told me that Friant (who is a man of talent) is 
enthusiastic over my picture. 

People whom I do not know are talking about me, are 
interested in me, and are discussing my merits. What happi- 
ness! Ah! I can scarcely believe it, after having desired and 
expected it so long. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 785 

I received a letter from somebody or other a day or two 
ago, asking me for permission to photograph my picture, and 
I am glad I waited before granting it, for I prefer Baude 
should do it — the one whom Bastien-Lepage calls Chariot, and 
to whom he writes letters eight pages long. 

I am going down to mamma's salon to receive the congrat- 
ulations of all the imbeciles, who believe that I paint as a 
society woman does, and who pay me the same compliments 
they do to Alice and the other little fools. 

I think Rosalie is the one who feels my success most keenly. 
She is wild with delight; speaks to me with the tenderness an 
• old nurse might show her foster-child, and tells things right 
and left in the most garrulous manner. 

Monday, May $th. — Death is a word we write and speak 
easily; but to think — to believe that one is going to die soon, 
is another thing. Do I believe that I am going to die soon? 
No; but I fear that I am. 

There is no use in disguising the fact; I am a consumptive. 
My right lung is far gone, and the left has been affected a 
little for a year. Both sides. If I were differently built, I 
should be almost thin. I am not so thin as most young girls, 
but I am not as I once was. A year ago I was superb, 
neither too stout nor too thin; now the flesh of my arms is no 
longer firm, and instead of my shoulders being rounded and 
beautifully formed, the bones are beginning to show through. 
I look at myself every day when I take my bath. My hips 
still retain their beautiful shape, and my legs are still plump, 
but the muscles on the knees show through too plainly. In 
short, my health is hopelessly impaired. But, miserable 
creature, take care of yourself! Why, I do take the greatest 
care of myself. I have had my chest burned on both sides, 
and I shall not be able to wear a low-necked dress for four 
months. And I shall have to be burned again from time to 
time, so that I can sleep. There is no longer any question of 
my getting well. I seem to be exaggerating things — but no, 
50 



786 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

it is really true! But, besides the burnings, there are so many 
things to be done, and I do them all. I take cod-liver oil, 
arsenic, and goat's milk. They have bought me a goat. I 
may linger on for a while, but I am doomed. I have had too 
much to fight against, and it has killed me. It is natural 
enough, but it is horrible all the same. 

There are so many interesting things in life. Take books, 
for instance. 

They have brought me a complete set of Zola, a complete 
set of Renan, and some volumes of Taine. I prefer Taine's 
"Revolution" to Michelet's. 

Michelet is rambling and uncertain, and despite his sym- 
pathy with the sublime side of the Revolution, and Taine's 
evident desire to dwell on the worse phases of it, I like Taine 
best. 

And my painting? 

Ah, if one could believe in a kind God, who arranges our 
affairs for the best! 

Tuesday, May 6t/t. — Reading absorbs me. I have read all 
of Zola. He is a giant. 

Ah! dear Frenchmen, there is another that you do not seem 
to appreciate. 

Wednesday, May 7th. — I have received from Dusseldorff a 
request for permission to engrave and publish my Salon pic- 
ture, as well as some other pictures of mine. It is amusing. 
But I can not yet believe in it all. Yes, it must be a success; 
everyone tells me so, and they did not say so last year; last 
year I had a little success with my pastel, but this year it is 
very different. Still, it is not a phenomenal success; and my 
name announced in any salon to-night would not produce any 
sensation, unless the room happened to be filled with painters. 
The sort of success that would fill me with pride and happi- 
ness would be to have all conversation stop, and all eyes 
turned in my direction, when my name was announced. 

Since the opening of the Salon, there is not a paper that has 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 787 

not spoken of my picture. And that is not all. This morn- 
ing there is an article in the Paris, entitled " Society Painters." 
I come immediately after Claire, and I have as many lines as 
she. I am a Greuze; I am a blonde, with the deep eyes and 
imperious brow of one who is destined to succeed. I dress very 
elegantly, I have great talent, and I paint excellent pictures 
of the realistic school, after the style of Bastien-Lepage. And, 
also, I have the smile and winning grace of a child! And I 
am not transported with delight? Why, not at all! 

Thursday, May 8th. — I have worked a little at home to-day. 

How is it that Wolff has said nothing of my picture? Possi- 
bly he has not seen it; perhaps his attention was diverted 
when he was in the room in which it is hung. It can not be 
because I am unworthy to be noticed by the great man, for 
he notices people who are of less importance than I. 

What is the reason, then? Is it ill-luck, like the number 
three? I do not believe in ill-luck; it is too easy a way out of 
difficulties, and too stupid. I believe it was my lack of merit. 

And the most astonishing thing is that this is true. 

Friday, May gth. — I am reading Zola, and I have a profound 
admiration for him. His criticisms and studies are wonder- 
ful, and I am madly in love with him. To please such a man I 
would do anything! Do you think me capable of the same 
sort of love that other women feel? Oh, heaven! 

Well, I love Bastien-Lepage as I love Zola, whom I have 
never seen — who is fat and who has a wife. I ask you if the 
men one meets in society, the men one is expected to marry — 
are not perfectly ridiculous. 

Emile Bastien dined with us to-night, and he told me that 
on Thursday he would bring Monsieur Hayem, a well-known 
connoisseur to see me. He owns pictures by Delacroix, Corot, 
and Bastien-Lepage, and he has a special gift for discovering 
painters who will one day be great. 

The day following the one on which Bastien-Lepage exhib- 
ited the portrait of his grandfather, Hayem came to his studio 



788 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

and ordered a. portrait of his own father. It seems that he 
has a wonderfully keen scent for genius. Emile Bastien met 
him to-day, standing .before my picture. 

"What do you think of that?" 

" I like it very much. Do you know the artist? Is she 
young?" and so forth, and so forth. 

This Hayem has followed me since last year, when he noticed 
my pastel. 

In short, they will come Thursday. He desires to buy 
something of mine. 

Monday, May 12th. — After several bitterly cold days, the 
thermometer for the last three days has stood at 28 or 29°. 
It is overpowering. 

I have finished a study of a little girl in a garden, in antici- 
pation of the connoisseur's visit. 

I forgot to say that we met Hecht on the staircase of the 
Italicns, and he was enthusiastic over my picture. 

It does not make much impression on me. I have not yet 
achieved any wonderful success; but neither had Bastien- 
Lepage, when he exhibited the picture of his grandfather. 
Nothing makes much difference; but still, as I am to die soon, 
I would like — 

All the symptoms seem to point to the fact that Bastien- 
Lepage has cancer of the stomach. It is all over with him, 
then. But perhaps it is a mistake. The poor fellow can not 
sleep. It is an. outrage! And his porter probably enjoys 
excellent health. It is an outrage! 

Thursday, May i$th.— At 10 o'clock in the morning Emile 
Bastien arrived with Monsieur Hayem. 

Is it not queer? It does not seem to me possible. I am an 
artist and I have talent, real talent. And a man like this 
Monsieur Hayem comes to see me, and is interested in what I 
have done! Can it be true? 

Emile Bastien is very happy over it all. He said to me, the 
other day: " It seems as if it were myself." The good boy 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 789 

is very unhappy. I do not believe that his brother will 
recover. 

Saturday, May ipA. — All the afternoon I walked up and 
down my room, happy enough, and with little shivers running 
up my back at the thought of the medal. 

The medal is for the public. As a matter of fact, I prefer a 
success like mine, without a medal, to some kinds of medals. 

Saturday, May ijt/i. — I returned home from the Bois, where 
I went with the Staritzky girls, who are passing through Paris, 
and I found Bagnisky here. He told me that at the painter 
Bogoluboff's they were discussing the Salon, and someone 
said that my picture resembled those of Bastien-Lepage. 

On the whole, I am flattered at the talk my picture is creat- 
ing. I am envied, I am slandered, I am someone, and I may 
be allowed to plume myself a little if I want to. 

But no! Instead, I exclaim, in a heart-breaking tone: " Is it 
not horrible, and have I not reason to be despondent? I have 
passed six years — the six most beautiful years of my life — 
in working like a galley slave, seeing no one and enjoying 
nothing in life! At the end of six years I paint some- 
thing good, and people dare to say that I have been helped! 
The reward for so much work and worry is simply cal- 
umny." 

This I say, half laughingly, half seriously, stretched on a 
bear-skin, my arms flung carelessly over my head. My mother, 
however, takes it all seriously, and this worries me terribly. 
This is the w T ay mamma behaves. Let us suppose that they 
have awarded the medal of honor to X — . Naturally, I 
exclaim that it is an outrage, a shame; that I am indignant, 
furious, etc. Mamma — " But no, no, don't get so excited! They 
have not given it to him; it is not true; he has not received it. 
And if they have given it to him, they have done so on pur- 
pose; they know your character; they know that you will be 
enraged, and they have done it on purpose and you allow 
yourself to be caught in a trap, like a little fool." 



790 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

This has not really happened — it is only a prophecy; wait 
until X — has his medal of honor, and you will see. 

Another example. The novel of that pitiful Y — , who hap- 
pens to be the fashion now, has attained an enormous number 
of editions. Of course I am angry. You see that is what 
the majority devour with avidity; that is what they prefer! 
Oh, temporal Oh, mores! Do you want to bet that mamma will 
not repeat her X — tirade, or something very like it. It has 
already happened on many occasions. She is afraid I will 
break to pieces or die at the least shock, and with marvelous 
ingenuousness she tries to preserve me by means which will 
end by driving me into a fever. 

Let X — , Y — , or Z — call and say: " Do you know the 
Larochefoucauld's ball was superb?" 

My face grows dark. 

Mamma sees it, and five minutes later she relates, as if 
accidentally, something calculated to disparage the ball in my 
eyes — if she does not attempt to prove that it did not take 
place at all. 

It has come to this — childish evasions and subterfuges; 
and it makes me foam with rage that they should think me 
such an idiot as to believe them. 

Tuesday, May 20th. — I went to the Salon with Monsieur H — 
at 10 o'clock this morning. He says that my picture is so 
good that people think I must have received help. 

It is atrocious! 

He dares to say also that Bastien never knew how to com- 
pose a picture; that he is a portrait painter, and his pictures 
are portraits, and that he can do nothing with the nude. This 
Jew is really astonishing. He spoke of the medal and is going 
to interest himself about it, as he knows all the members of 
the committee, etc. 

When we left the Salon, we went to Robert-Fleury's. In an 
excited manner I told him that I was accused of not having 
painted my own picture. He had not heard the report; he 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 791 

said the opinion did not exist among the committee, and if any 
one should say such a thing he would be there to defend me. 
He thought me much more agitated than I really was, and 
came home to breakfast with us, that he might calm and con- 
sole me. 

" How can you let everything disturb you so? You ought 
to spurn such things from you, and not give them a thought." 

" I would like to have some one of the committee say it 
before me/' he added; " I would let him know what I thought 
of it. If any one dared to say it I would crush him." 

" Thank you, Monsieur." 

" No, it is not a question of friendship; I should act in that 
manner simply because I am defending the truth, and no one 
knows that better than I." He repeated something like this 
over and over, and said that I had a chance for the medal. Of 
course, he could not tell certainly, but he thought that I had 
a good chance. 

Saturday \ May 24th. — A year ago to-day it was all over, but, 
this year the Salon did not open until Tuesday; so that makes 
to-day correspond to May 21st of last year. To-day the first 
and second class medals are to be awarded; and to-morrow, 
the third class. 

It is warm, and I am tired out. 

France Illustree has asked for permission to reproduce the 
picture, and a man named Lecadre has done the same. I have 
consented to both requests. 

But they will give medals to pictures not so good as mine. 
There is no doubt about that. Still I do not worry much 
about it; real talent is bound to assert itself; but the delay is 
provoking. It is better not to count upon the medal. Men- 
tion was absolutely promised, but the medal is doubtful. If I 
do not receive it, it will be a glaring piece of injustice. 

Sunday, May 25th.— What have I done since the first of 
May? Nothing. And why? Ah, misery! I have just come from 
Sevres; it is frightful; the landscape is so changed that I can 



792 JOURNAL OF MARIE B ASHKIRTSEFF. 

do nothing with it. It is no longer spring. And then my 
apple blossoms (in the picture) had turned yellow; I used too 
much oil; it was stupid, but I have remedied it; we shall see. 
I must finish that picture at once. With the Salon, the news- 
papers, the rain, H — , and other stupid things, I have lost 
twenty-five days; it is a shame, but there is an end to it all 
now. 

The medal is to be awarded to-day. It is now 4 o'clock, 
and the rain is falling in torrents. Last year I was sure of 
having it, and I was wild at the delay of positive new T s. This 
year I am not sure, but I am much calmer; a year ago I was 
certain of it, but I was afraid of the unexpected, and the idea 
of having it for a pastel was rather disagreeable. But now 
that I know how beautiful the pastel is, it gives me nothing but 
pleasure. * 

This year it is yes or no, without any question. If it is yes, 
I shall know it by 8 o'clock this evening. Meanwhile, for the 
next four hours, I am going to recline in the arm-chair, near 
the window and look out into the street.. 

It is twenty minutes past 5. However, I am not more 
wearied than when I have remained idle with nothing to 
expect. 

And- then that oil that yellowed my flowers! When I first 
saw it, the perspiration stood out on my forehead. Let us 
hope it will not be very noticeable. In two hours, I shall 
know. You think, perhaps, that I am very nervous. No, I 
tell you — not more so than when I have passed an afternoon 
idle and alone. 

In any case, to-morrow's newspapers will tell me the result. 

I am tired out with waiting. I am feverish and I have a 
slight headache. 

Oh! I shall not have it; and it is the thought of mamma's 
emotion that worries me the most. I do not wish my affairs 
to be pried upon, nor my feelings sympathized with by any 
one. I suffer as if I had done something wrong. If I be 



JOURNAL OF MARIE UASHKIRTSEFF. 7&3 

burning up, or drowning, or no matter what, others must leave 
me in peace. And mamma will imagine that I am suffering, 
and that exasperates me. 

Thirty-five minutes past 7! I am called to dinner. All is over. 

Monday, May 26th. — This is better. Instead of stupidly 
waiting, I am now indignant, and that is a sentiment which 
need not be concealed; it is almost refreshing. Twenty-six 
third-class medals were awarded yesterday, and there are six 
more to be awarded to-day. M — has a medal for the portrait 
of Julian. 

Why is it that I have received no medal? For medals 
have been awarded to pictures comparatively bad. 

Injustice? I don't care much for that excuse. It is the 
one most pleaded by people without brains. 

They may admire my picture or not, as they please; but the 
fact remains that it contains seven children, grouped together, 
and with a background that also has some merit. Everyone 
whose opinion is worth anything thinks it good, or even very 
good; there are some who say that I could not have painted 
it all by myself. Even the elder Robert-Fleury, without 
knowing who the artist was, thought it very good. And 
Boulanger said to people who did not know me that he did 
not care for that style of painting, but nevertheless he thought 
this particular picture very well done and very interesting. 

What, then, can it mean? 

Pictures with no merit whatever have been awarded medals; 
I know that this has been the rule. But, on the other hand, 
there is no artist of talent who has not had his medals. 
So that there are "daubers" decorated with medals, but no 
man of genius without one. What then? What then? I also 
have eyes; my picture is a composition. 

Suppose I had dressed those urchins in the costume of 
the middle ages, and painted them in a studio (which is 
much easier than in the open air) with a background of old 
tapestry? 



794 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

I should then have an historical painting which would be 
much appreciated in Russia. 

What can I believe? 

Here is another request for reproduction — from Baschet, the 
great publisher. 

It is the fifth that I have signed. What of it? 

Tuesday », May 27th. — It is over. I have no medal. But it 
is frightfully provoking. I did not give up hope until this 
morning. And if you knew the things to which they have 
given medals! 

Why am I not discouraged? Because I am so astonished, 
perhaps. If my picture is good, why did it not receive a prize? 

Intrigues, they will say. 

That is all very well; but still, if my picture is good, why 
did it not receive a prize? I do not wish to set myself up as 
a guileless child, who does not know there are such things as 
intrigues; but yet when a picture is good — 

Then it must have been bad? No, that can not be. 

I have eyes, even in judging my own works — and then the 
others! And the forty newspapers! 

Thursday, May 29th. — I have had a fever all night, and I 
am frightfully irritated and wildly nervous. It is not the 
medal alone, but that combined with a sleepless night. 

I am so unhappy! I long to believe in God. Is it not 
natural to seek for some miraculous power that can help you, 
when all is wretchedness and misery, and there is no loop-hole 
of escape anywhere? 

One tries to believe in an Omnipotent Being, Whom one 
has only to appeal to, to be heard, and Whom one can 
address without fear of humiliation or coldness. Then one 
has resort to prayer. The doctors are powerless, and we ask 
for a miracle, which does not happen; but while we are ask- 
ing and expecting it, we are somewhat consoled. It does 
not amount to much. God can be only a just God; but if 
He is just, why does He allow things to be as they are? 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. ? ( J5 

A second's reflection, alas! is all that is required to destroy 
our belief. What is the use of living? What is the use of 
dragging on such a miserable existence? Death presents this 
advantage, at least — it is a means of finding what this famous 
future life really is; that is, if there is any future life at all. 

Friday, May 2,0th. — I think that I am very stupid not to 
devote myself seriously to the only thing that is worth the 
trouble — the only thing that gives happiness and makes all 
sorrows fade away: Love — yes, love, of course. Two beings 
who love each other, believe each other to be morally and 
physically perfect — morally especially! A being who loves 
you is just, good, loyal, generous, and ready in the simplest 
manner to perform the most heroic deeds. 

Two beings who love each other believe in a wonderful and 
perfect universe, such as philosophers, like Aristotle and I, 
have dreamed of; and that is, I think, the great attraction 
of love. 

In our relations with our family, our friends, our acquaint- 
ances, we discover indications of the sordid side of humanity. 
Here, there is a suspicion of avarice or of stupidity; there, 
there is a hint of lowness, envy, or injustice; in short, our best 
friend has his thoughts which he never tells to us, and, as 
Maupassant says, man is always alone, for it is impossible for 
him to penetrate the thoughts of his best friend, even in the 
most confidential moments. 

Well, love accomplishes the miracle of the mingling of 
souls. It is an illusion, of course, but what matters that? 
That which we believe to exist, does exist! I tell you so myself. 
Love makes the world appear to be what it ought to be. If I 
were God — 

Well, what then? 

Saturday, May 31st. — Villevieille has told me that I did not 
receive a medal because of the fuss I made about last year's 
mention, and because I spoke publicly of the committee as 
idiots. It is true that I did say that. 



796 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

My picture is not, perhaps, very large or very striking; but 
if it were, the " Meeting " would be a masterpiece. Are mas- 
terpieces necessary for little third-class medals? Baude's 
engraving has appeared with an article in which it is stated 
that the public is disappointed that I have not received a 
medal. My painting is dry? But they say the same thing of 
Bastien. 

Are there in this world people capable of saying that M — *s 
portrait is better than my picture? Monsieur Bastien-Lepage 
had eight votes for his " Joan of Arc." Monsieur M — has a 
medal. Yes, the immense M — had twenty-eight votes, exactly 
twenty more than I. There is neither conscience nor justice 
in the world. What must I believe? I am completely bewildered. 

I went down-stairs when H— came, to show the Jew that I am 
not cast down. 

I appeared so satisfied and so haughty, and talked so uncon- 
cernedly of photographs, engravers, purchasers, etc., that the 
son of Israel finally decided that he would like to do business 
with me, although I had no medal. "I will buy your pastel 
(" Armandine ") and the head of the laughing baby." Two! 
He arranged the matter with Dina, but we sent him to Emile 
Bastien to settle the price. I am very well satisfied. 

Sunday, June \st. — I have done nothing for a month past! 
Yes, I began to read Sully-Prudhomme yesterday morning. I 
have two of his books, and I like them very much. 

I care but little for versification. When the verses are bad ? 
they displease me ; but otherwise I think only of the idea 
expressed. If people want to rhyme, let them do so; but they 
must not make the rhyme obtrusive. Sully-Prudhomme's 
ideas are what greatly pleased me. There is in his poetry an 
elevation of style, an elegance of diction, and a subtle, fine 
reasoning, which are entirely in harmony with my own way of 
thinking. 

I read, sometimes lying upon the divan and sometimes walk- 
ing up and down on the balcony, the preface to Lucrece 



JOURNAL OF MARIE 15 ASHKlRTSEFf . 79? 

and the book itself, " De Natura Rerum" Those who know the 
book will be able to understand me. 

To understand everything in this book demands the closest 
attention. It must be difficult reading, even for those who are 
accustomed to grapple this subject. I understood it all; at 
times the meaning escaped me, but I read the lines over and 
over until I forced myself to comprehend them. I am obliged 
to feel a great respect for Sully-Prudhomme, because he has 
written things w T hich were so difficult for me to understand. 

The handling of ideas is as familiar to him as the handling of 
colors is to me. 

Then he ought to have a deep veneration for me, too, 
because with a few " muddy colors," as the unsympathetic 
Theophile Gautier says, I make faces which express human 
sentiments, and pictures in which are seen nature, trees, 
atmosphere, distance. He probably thinks himself a thousand 
times superior to a painter, because he rummages in the mech- 
anism of human thought. What does that teach him or 
others? It teaches how the mind works, perhaps, by giving 
names to all the swift, elusive processes of the intellect. To 
poor, ignorant me, it seems that this subtle philosophy will 
teach nothing to any one. It is a research, a delicate and dif- 
ficult amusement; but what is the use of it all? Will learning 
to give names to these abstract and marvelous things form great 
geniuses, and make them write, think, and rule this universe? 

" And then man," he says, "can know an object only so 
far as he comes in direct communication with it." The 
greater part of those who read this book will not understand 
what this means, but I will make one more quotation: " Our 
science, therefore, can not exceed the knowledge of our cate- 
gories applied to our perceptions." Good! We evidently 
can not understand more than we can understand. There 
can be no doubt about that. 

If I had had a systematic education, I should have been a 
very remarkable woman. Everything I know I have learned 



798 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

myself. I drew up, myself, the plan of my studies at Nice 
with the professors of the Lyceum, who never ceased wonder- 
ing at it. In drawing it up, I was guided half by intuition 
and half by what I had read. I wished to know such and 
such a thing. Since then I have read the Greek and Latin 
authors, the French and English classics, contemporaneous 
writers — in fact, everything I possibly could. 

But it is a chaos; although, through my natural love of har- 
mony, I have endeavored to reduce my knowledge to some 
sort of order. 

What is there in this man, Sully-Prudhomme? Six months 
ago I bought his books, and, after trying to read them, I cast 
them aside as pleasant verses; but to-day I discover things in 
them that have captivated me, and I have read on and on, 
impelled to do so by Francois Coppee's visit. And yet 
neither Coppee nor anyone else spoke of him; then what 
connection is there in my mind between them, and why? 

It is evident that with a great effort I could make a philo- 
sophical analysis of this intellectual work. But why should I? 
Would that change in the slightest degree my opinions? 

Thursday \ June $th. — Prater is dead. He had grown up 
with me; they bought him for me in Vienna in 1870; he was 
three weeks old at the time, and he used to rummage about 
behind -the trunks among the paper wrappings of the pur- 
chases we had made. 

He was my faithful and devoted dog, whining when I went 
out and waiting for hours at the window for my return. 
Then at Rome I took a fancy to another dog, and mamma 
took Prater; but he was always very jealous of my affections. 
Ah! when I think of his tawny, lion-like hide and his beautiful 
eyes, I am ashamed of my own heartlessness. 

The new dog was called Pincio, and he was stolen from me 
in Paris. Instead of returning to Prater, who would not be 
consoled, I was stupid enough to have Coco I., and the pres- 
ent Coco. It was mean and unworthy of me. For four years 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 799 

these two animals were ready to devour each other; and 
finally we had to shut Prater up in an attic chamber, where 
he lived like a prisoner, while Coco trampled upon people and 
things as he chose. He died of old age. Yesterday I spent a 
couple of hours with him; he dragged himself up to me and 
put his head on my knee. 

Ah! I am a fine creature, with my affectionate sentiments. 
Contemptible character! I weep as I write, and I think that 
the traces of my tears will give me a reputation for being 
kind-hearted with those who read me. I always intended to 
take back the poor beast; but I limited myself to giving him 
a lump of sugar, or a caress, as I passed him by. You ought 
to have seen his tail then; it went round and round like a 
spinning-wheel. 

After all, he is not yet dead. I thought he was, because I 
no longer saw him in his room; he had hidden himself behind 
a trunk or a bath-tub, as he used to do in Vienna, and I 
thought that they had taken him away, not daring to tell, me 
the truth. But he can not live over twenty-four hours. 

Robert-Fleury found me in tears; he had come in reply to 
a letter from me asking him something about the reproduc- 
tions of my picture. It appears that I had neglected to sign 
a little paper by which others could be prevented from repro- 
ducing my picture, and so involving me in a lawsuit. You 
must know that I am very proud of all these requests for 
authority to reproduce the picture, and I should be proud 
even of a lawsuit. 

Friday, June 6th. — The soiree at the embassy has been 
occupying my thoughts considerably, and I am afraid some- 
thing will happen to spoil my enjoyment. I can never believe 
that there is anything pleasant in store for me. However 
promising everything may seem, some unforeseen obstacle 
always prevents the realization of my hopes. How long I 
have bewailed this fact! 

We went to the Salon to-day — I in order to see the picture 



800 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

which had received the medal. We met Robert-Fleury there; 
and, as we stood looking at one of the pictures which had 
received a second medal, I asked him what he would say to 
me if I should bring him a picture painted like that. 

"In the first place," he replied, seriously, "I hope that you 
will take care never to paint like that." 

" But it has a second medal." 

"Well, the painter is a fellow who has exhibited for a long 
time, and then — you understand." 

What a mass of mediocrities! It was positively saddening. 

The pictures which received medals are not absolutely 
outrageous, but simply common-place and poor. 

On the whole, this year's exhibition is anything but one to 
be proud of. 

Saturday, June p/i. — We are preparing in silence for this 
evening's solemnity. 

My gown is of white silk mull. The corsage is formed of 
two draperies, crossed and knotted on the shoulders. The 
sleeves are short and trimmed with bows of the mull. There 
is a wide, white sash with long, floating ends. The skirt is made 
with a drapery from left to right falling to the feet. Behind 
are two breadths of the mull, one touching the ground; the 
other, shorter. My slippers are white. My hair will be 
arranged in a Psyche knot and w T ith no ornament. The whole 
effect will be charming. I think the gown is exceedingly 
graceful. The drapery in front is a dream. It is so simple 
and elegant that I shall certainly look very pretty in it. 
Mamma will wear black damask, with a long train and dia- 
monds. 

Sunday, June %th. — I looked as well as possible — as well as 
I have ever done. The gown produced a charming effect, 
and I was as fresh and blooming as I used to be in Rome or 
Nice. 

The people who have been in the habit of seeing me every 
day gazed at me in astonishment. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 80l 

We arrived at the ball somewhat late. Madame Fridericks 
was not near the ambassadress, with whom mamma exchanged 
a few words. There were plenty of people we knew. Madame 
d 'A — whom I met at the Gavini's, and who did not bow to me 
then, to-night bowed to me very pleasantly. I took the arm 
of Gavini, who looked very well with his ribbons and stars; he 
presented Menabrea, the Italian minister, to me, and we 
talked art. Then Monsieur de Lesseps told me long stories 
of his children and their nurses, and the shares of the Suez 
Canal. We remained together for a long time. Chevreau was 
with us. 

As for the charges d'affaires and the attaches of the embas- 
sies, I neglected them to talk to the old men with their breasts 
covered with decorations. 

A little later, having duly sacrificed at the altar of fame, I 
talked with all the painters that were there; they were all 
very curious about me and asked to be presented. But I was 
so pretty and so well dressed that they will be convinced that 
I did not paint my pictures by myself. There were Chreme- 
tieff, Lehman, a very sympathetic old man with some talent, 
and Edelfeldt, who has considerable talent, and who is a 
handsome, rather vulgar young man — a Russian from Finland. 
On the whole, it was very pleasant. You see the chief thing 
is to be pretty; everything depends upon that. 

Tuesday, June 10th. — How interesting the streets are! The 
faces of the passers-by, the peculiarities of each one, and the 
glimpses we catch of the hearts of people who are strangers 
to us — to endow all these with life, or rather, to picture the 
life of each one! We paint, with the aid of Parisian models, 
a combat of Roman gladiators, which we have never seen. 
Why not paint the strugglers of Paris from the life? In five 
or six centuries it will be an antique, and the imbeciles of those 
days will regard it w T ith veneration. 

Saturday, June 14th. — It was mamma's reception day to-day, 
and we had many callers. I wore a very elegant gown, of 

51 



802 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

gray taffeta with a white mull vest, made in the Louis XVI. 
style. 

I went to Sevres and took a model with me, but I did not 
stay long. A professional model is not like a real country 
girl, and the next time I go I shall take our chambermaid. 
This Armandine will never do; it is too easy to be seen that 
she has danced at the Eden Theatre. 

And I, who pretend to paint the people as they really are, 
would have depicted a little danseuse dressed up as a peasant. 
I want a great stupid girl, whom the first peasant that came 
along could take advantage of. However, Armandine was 
ideally stupid; I made her talk. 

When stupidity does not irritate me, it amuses me; I listen 
to it with a pitying curiosity, and then I learn the manners 
and customs of the lower classes, I fill out the hints I obtain 
with my own intuition, which, if you will allow me to say so, 
is really remarkable. 

Monday, June 16th. — This evening we went to see Sarah 
Bernhardt in "Macbeth" (Richepin's translation). The Gavinis 
went with us. 

I go so rarely to the theatre that I greatly enjoyed it. But 
the declamatory style of the actors offended my artistic sense. 
How much better would it be if they would speak naturally! 

Marais (Macbeth) was good in spots, but his intonation was 
at times so false and theatrical that it was painful to listen to 
him. Sarah was admirable, as she always is, although her 
voice has lost something of its silvery cadence. 

Tuesday, June 17M. — My picture drives me wild, and the 
hands are still to be done. The sleeping peasant girl, the 
blossoming apple tree, and the violets no longer interest me. 
A canvas three feet square would have been quite large 
enough for it, and I have made it life-size. It is good for 
nothing. Three months thrown away! 

Wednesday, June i%th. — I have been at Sevres all day. 
What torments me is that I have feverish attacks every day. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 803 

I can not seem to grow fat, and yet I drink six or seven glasses 
of goat's milk a day. 

Friday, June 20th. — The architect has written to me from 
Algiers. At the end of my letter to him I drew our three 
likenesses, each with a medal about the neck; Jules with the 
medal of honor, I a first medal, and the architect a second, 
for next year. I also sent him a photograph of the " Meet- 
ing; " and he answered me that he showed all to his brother, 
who was very glad to have an idea of the picture, of which so 
much had been said to him. He thought it very good, and he 
exclaimed: 

" How stupid they were not to have given a medal to this 
picture, which seems to me very good, indeed!" 

He wished very much that he was able to write to me, but 
it was impossible, he suffers so much; but in spite of his suffer- 
ing he has decided to start for home a week from to-day. He 
told the architect to send me his kindest regards, and to thank 
me for the embroidery. 

A year ago, I should have been overjoyed at this. 

He wished that he was able to write to me. I am pleased 
at this only — retrospectively; for, at present, the whole affair 
is almost indifferent to me. 

At the bottom of the letter is my head, with the medal of 
honor for 1886. 

He must have been touched by the manner in which I 
sought to console his brother in my letter; the letter began 
seriously with comforting words, and ended with pleasantries, 
which is my usual way. 

Wednesday, June 25th. — Read over the pages of my journal 
for 1875, 1876, and 1877. I complain thereof I know what; 
everywhere are aspirations toward the indefinite. Every even- 
ing I was wounded and discouraged, longing furiously and 
desperately to find something to do. Should I go to Italy? 
Remain in Paris? Marry? Paint? What should I do? If 
I went to Italy, I should not be in Paris, and I had a 



804 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHK1RTSEFF. 

thirst to be everywhere at once. What wasted energy was 
there! 

If I had been a man, I would have conquered Europe; 
being a young girl, I exhausted my strength in exaggerated 
language and eccentric follies. Misery! 

There are moments when we ingenuously believe ourselves 
to be capable of anything. " If I only had time, I would be 
a sculptor, a writer, a musician." An inward fire was and is 
devouring me. And death is the inevitable end of all things, 
whether I consume myself with vain longings or not. 

But if I am nothing, if I never shall be anything, why did I 
have those dreams of fame ever since I can remember? Why 
did I have those wild aspirations after greatness, which 
appeared to my early imagination in the guise of rank and 
wealth? 

Why, since I was first able to think, since I was four years 
old, did I have vague but tremendous longings for glory and 
splendor? 

In my childish brain I imagined myself to be all sorts of 
things. First I was a dancer, a famous dancer, whom St. 
Petersburg adored. Every evening I would make them put a 
low-necked dress on me, with flowers in my hair, and I would 
dance in the Salon, very grave and serious, while every one in 
the house looked on. Then, I was the first singer in the 
world. I sang and accompanied myself on the harp, and I was 
borne in triumph, I don't know where or by whom. Then I 
electrified the masses by my eloquence. The Emperor of 
Russia married me in order to keep himself on the throne; I 
lived in direct communication with my people; I made 
speeches to them explaining my policy, and both people and 
sovereign were moved to tears. And then I fell in love. The 
man I loved was false to me, or, if he were not false to me, he 
was killed by some accident — generally, a fall from a horse just 
at the moment I was beginning to feel I loved him less than 
before; then I loved another. But all my love affairs were 



JOURNAL OF MARIR BASHKIRTSEFF. 805 

very moral ones; my lovers either died or were false to me. 
I consoled myself for my dead lovers; but when my lovers 
were false to me, I became desperate and miserable, and 
finally died. 

In short, in everything, in all the ramifications of all human 
pleasures and feelings, my dreams have been greater than the 
reality; and, if they are never to be realized, it is better to die. 

Why was my picture not awarded a medal? 

The medal! It must be that some of them thought I had 
received assistance. It has already happened that medals 
have been given to women who had been helped in their 
work; and v r hen a medal has once been given, the recipient 
has the right to be admitted to the next year's Salon, and may 
send the most worthless thing imaginable. 

And I, young, elegant, and praised by the papers! All 
these people are the same. Breslau, for example; she told 
my model that I would paint much better if I went less to 
balls. They all imagine that I go every evening into society. 
How deceitful appearances are! But to suppose that my pic- 
ture was not my own, that is too serious; they have not said 
it publicly; would to heaven they had! Tony Robert-Fleury 
told me that he was astonished at the result; for every time he 
spoke of me to his colleagues of the committee, they answered 
him: " It is very good; it is a very interesting thing/' 

" What do you suppose they meant when they said that?" 
asked Robert-Fleury. 

Then // is this doubt — 

Friday, June 27M. — Just as we were starting for a drive in 
the Bois the architect appeared near the carriage. They 
arrived this morning, and he had come to tell us that Jules 
was a little better; that he had -borne his journey well, but 
that unfortunately he could not go out. He would have had so 
much pleasure in telling me how greatly my picture had been 
admired by every one to whom he had shown the photograph 
in Algiers. 



806 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Then we will go and see him to-morrow," said mamma. 

" You could not give him a greater pleasure; he has said 
that your picture — But no, he will tell it to you himself; that 
will be better." 

Saturday, June 2%th. — We went, therefore, to the Rue 
Legendre. 

As we entered, he rose and took a few steps forward to 
meet us; it seemed to me that he was ashamed to let us see 
how changed he was. 

He is changed — oh, very much changed; but it is not his 
stomach that is the trouble. I am no physician, but his looks 
are enough to prove that. 

In short, I found him so changed that all I said to him was: 

" Well! have you come back?" 

He was not at all reserved, but kind and friendly. He spoke 
very flatteringly of my picture, repeating to me constantly 
not to trouble myself about the medal; that my success was 
enough. 

I made him laugh, telling him his illness would do him 
good, as he was beginning to grow stout. The architect 
seemed delighted to see the invalid so gay and pleasant. 
And thus encouraged, I grew talkative. He paid me many 
compliments on my gown, and even on the handle of my para- 
sol. He made me sit down at his feet on the reclining-chair. 
His poor legs were so thin, his eyes were larger and very 
bright, and his hair was uncared for. 

But he is very interesting, and since he has asked me to do 
so, I shall go and see him again. 

The architect, who accompanied us down-stairs, also asked 
me to do so. " It gives Jules so much pleasure, and he is so 
happy to see you; he says that you have much talent, I assure 
you." I write all this about the reception I met with, because 
it has pleased me very much. 

But the feeling I have for him is maternal, calm, and 
tender, and I am proud of it. I am sure that he will recover. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 807 

Monday, June 30M. — I came very near cutting my painting 
to pieces to-day. There is not a bit of it as I would like to 
have it. 

There is still one of the hands to be done; but when that 
hand is finished, there is so much to be done over again! Oh, 
misery! 

And three months, three months I have wasted on it! 

I have amused myself by arranging a magnificent basket 
of strawberries. I gathered them myself, putting in a few 
green ones for the sake of the color. 

And such leaves! In short, marvelous strawberries, gath- 
ered by an artist with the delicacy and coquetry of one 
engaged in an unaccustomed occupation. 

And with them I put a whole branch of red gooseberries. 

I walked with them through the streets of Sevres, and 
I held the basket upon my knees in the tramway, taking care to 
hold it up a little so that the air might pass all about it and 
the heat not spoil the strawberries — not one of which had a 
spot or blemish upon it. 

Rosalie laughed at me. 

"If anyone at home should see you, Mademoiselle!" 

Is it possible? But I do it for the sake of his painting, 
which deserves it; not for his face, which does not. But his 
painting deserves every consideration. 

Then, I suppose that it is his painting that will eat the 
strawberries? 

Tuesday, July ist. — Still that odious Sevres! But I 
returned in good time, before 5 o'clock. My picture is almost 
finished. 

But I am terribly depressed; everything goes wrong with me. 

I need some great distraction. 

And I, who do not believe in God, have fixed my hopes 
upon God. 

It used to be the case that, after days of frightful suffering, 
something would happen to restore my spirits. 



808 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

My God, why do You permit me to reason? I would so 
much prefer to blindly believe. 

I believe or I do not believe. When I reason I can not 
believe; but in moments of utter misery or of great joy, at the 
bottom of my heart my first thought is always of that God 
Who is so harsh to me! 

Wednesday, July 2d. — We have been to see Bastien-Lepage, 
in his studio this time, and it seems to me that he is better. 
His mother was there. She is much better looking than her 
portrait — a woman of sixty, who appears forty-five or fifty. 
Her hair is light and very pretty, only slightly streaked with 
gray; she has a pleasant smile, is very agreeable, and looked 
very well in her black and white gown; she embroiders very 
prettily in designs of her own invention. 

Bastien-Lepage has two front teeth quite wide apart, just as 
I have. 

Thursday, July $d. — This morning at 7 o'clock I went to 
see Potain. He made a very slight examination, and ordered 
me to the Eaux-Bonnes. After that, we shall see. He gave 
me a letter to his colleague at the Eaux, which I opened and 
read. He says in it that there is a hole on the top of the 
right lung, and that I am the most undisciplined and most 
imprudent patient in the world. 

Then, as it w T as not 8 o'clock, I went to the little doctor in 
the Rue de l'Echiquier. He appears to me like a serious 
fellow; for he seemed disagreeably surprised at my condition, 
and insisted very strongly that I should go to one of the 
princes of medical science, Bouchard or Grancher. 

As I refused, he said that he would accompany me if I 
would go. Then I consented. 

Potain pretends that I have been much worse than I am; 
that my condition for a time was wonderfully improved; that 
now I am worse again, but that there is no immediate danger. 
He is such an optimist that I must be very ill. 

Little B — does not share his opinion; he says that I have 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 809 

been worse, indeed, but that the disease was acute, and it was 
feared that it would progress very rapidly, which, however, 
has not happened; and that is what Potain meant by my being 
wonderfully improved, while now the disease is aggravated 
and chronic. In short, I absolutely must go and consult 
Grancher. 

I will go. 

Bah! you consumptive! 

Taking everything altogether^ it is far from being a jesting 
matter. And there is not the least glimmer of sunshine to 
console me a little. 

Friday, July \th, — The Sevres picture is here in the studio. 
It might be called April; but the name is immaterial to me, 
for it seems to me very poor. 

The background is of a vivid and dirty green. 

The woman is not at all what I wished — not at all. 

I hurried to finish it, and the sentiment is by no means 
what I had imagined. In short, more than three months have 
been thrown away. 

Saturday, July $th. — I have a charming gown of gray cloth, 
the waist made like an artist's blouse, with no trimming 
except some lace at the neck and wrists. To wear with it I 
have an ideal hat with a large knot of old lace. I was very 
anxious, as I looked so well in it, to go to the Rue Legendre; 
only I was afraid I had been there too often; and yet, why so? 
I ought to be able to go there as a friend and a good com- 
rade, since he is very ill. 

At all events, we did go. His mother was delighted, 
patted me on the shoulder, and spoke of my beautiful hair. 
The architect was stupid, as he has been ever since his monu- 
ment was completed, and the great painter is better. 

He ate his soup and his egg before us; his mother ran and 
brought him everything, in order that the domestic should not 
be obliged to appear. He found it all very natural, and 
calmly accepted our services; he is never astonish^rj at any- 



810 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

thing. In speaking of his looks, someone said that he ought 
to have his hair cut, and mamma related how she used to cut 
her son's hair when he was a little boy, and also her father's, 
when he was ill. 

" Do you want me to cut yours? It may bring you luck." 
Everybody laughed, but he consented at once; his mother 
brought a wrapper, and mamma proceeded to put her offer 
into operation, accomplishing her task with great credit. 

I wanted also to use the scissors, but the naughty boy said 
that I would be awkward about it, and I revenged myself by 
an allusion to Samson and Delilah. 

My next picture! 

At this he condescended to laugh. 

His brother, emboldened by this, now proposed to trim his 
beard also, and did so, his hands trembling a little. 

That transformed his whole face, and he no longer looked 
ill and changed. His mother uttered an exclamation of joy. 
" I see him again — my boy, my dear little boy, my dear 
child!" 

What a good woman she is, so simple, kind, and full of 
adoration for her celebrated son! 

They are worthy people. 

Monday, July i^th. — I have commenced the treatment which 
is going to cure me; and I am quite calm. 

My painting is progressing more favorably. 

The people on the Boulevard des Batignolles, and even on 
the Avenue Wagram, furnish good subjects. 

Have you ever noticed the streets and the passers-by? 

What a romance — what a drama one of those benches con- 
tains! The broken-down outcast with his shifting look, one 
arm thrown over the back of the bench, and the other resting 
on his knee; the woman with the child upon her lap; the 
woman of the people who is working; the grocer's boy, who 
is reading a cheap newspaper; the sleeping workman; the 
philosopher, and the desperate man who is smoking. Per^ 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 811 

haps I see too many things; and yet, look yourself some time 
about 5 or 6 o'clock in the evening. 

It is all there, all there, all there! 

It seems to me that I have found a subject. Yes, yes, yes, 
yes! I shall not do it, perhaps, but my mind is at rest. 

But there are moments which are so different! Sometimes 
one sees absolutely nothing in life, and sometimes — I begin 
to love everything about me. It is like a flood of life taking 
possession of my soul. 

And yet, perhaps, there is not much to rejoice at. 

Ah! never mind; I will find a gay and pleasant side, even 
in the thought of my death. I was made to be happy, but 

1 ' Pourquoi dans ton ceuvre celeste, 
Tant cT elements si peu a" accord? " 

Tuesday, July i$th. — I have returned to an old project, one 
which takes complete possession of me every time that I see 
the people upon the public benches. It might make a mag- 
nificent picture. It is much better to always paint scenes or 
figures which are motionless. Understand me, I am not 
opposed to action; but in violent scenes there can be no illu- 
sion or pleasure for the cultivated spectator. Without realiz- 
ing it, one is painfully impressed by that arm raised to strike, 
and which does not strike; by those legs which are in the posi- 
tion of running, and which remain in the same place. There 
are situations full of action, and yet where one can imagine an 
immovability of a few seconds. 

That moment should always be seized which follows a great 
action or some violent deed, rather than the one which pre- 
cedes it. The "Joan of Arc " of Bastien-Lepage has heard 
the voices; she has started forward, overturning her spinning- 
wheel, and has stopped short with her back against a tree. 
But take scenes where arms are raised in the air, and people 
are acting; they are, perhaps, very well done, but they never 
give complete enjoyment. 



812 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

On the other hand, take " The Distribution of Flags by the 
Emperor," which is at Versailles. 

Everyone is rushing forward, and the arms are raised, it is 
true, but yet it is a fine picture, because the arms are waiting 
for something. One is moved and carried away by the emo- 
tion of the men, and one shares their impatience. The spirit 
and action of the picture are immense,, precisely because 
one can imagine an instant's pause, during which one can 
reasonably regard the scene as a real thing, and not as a pic- 
ture.- 

Nothing can equal the grandeur of subjects in repose, either 
in sculpture or painting. 

A man of mediocre talent can execute well enough a scene 
which is full of movement, but he can make nothing of a 
subject in repose. 

See the pictures of Millet, and compare them to any scene 
of violence you choose, 

See the " Moses" of Michael Angelo. It is motionless, but 
it is living. His " Penseroso " does not move — does not speak, 
but it is because he does not wish to. He is a living man, 
who is absorbed by his thoughts. 

The " Pas-Meche" of Bastien-Lepage looks at you, and 
listens to you, and he will speak presently, for he is living. In 
his " Haymaking," the man lying upon his back, with his face 
covered by his hat, is asleep; but he is alive. The seated 
woman is buried in reflection and does not move; but one feels 
that she is living. 

A subject in repose can alone give complete enjoyment. It 
gives one a chance to become absorbed in it — to realize its 
life. 

Fools and ignoramuses think that such a subject is easier 
to do. Ah, misery! 

If I ever die, it will be from indignation at the infinite 
stupidity of the human race, as Flaubert says. 

Thirty years ago wonderful things were written in Russia. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 813 

While reading " Peace and War," by Count Tolstoi', I was 
so moved that I exclaimed: " Why, it is like Zola!" 

It is true that to-day there is an essay on our Tolstoi in the 
Revue des Deux-Mondes, and my Russian heart bounds with 
pride and joy. This essay is by Monsieur de Vogue, who was 
formerly Secretary of the Embassy in Russia, who has made a 
study of the literature and manners of the country, and who 
has already published many remarkably just and clever articles 
upon my great and wonderful native land. 

And you, miserable being! you live in France; you prefer to 
be a foreigner, rather than remain at home. Since you love 
your beautiful, great, and sublime Russia, go there and work 
for her. 

But I also work for the glory of my country, although I 
may never develop so great a talent as Tolstoi's. 

If I had not my painting, I would go there; upon my word 
of honor, I would go! But my work absorbs me and leaves 
me no room for anything else. 

Monday, July 21st. — I walked about to-day for more than 
four hours, trying to find a background for my picture. I 
have decided on the street, on an outer boulevard even, but 
I must make my choice there. 

It is evident that a public bench upon an outer boulevard 
has a very different character from a bench of the Champs 
Elysees, where are seated only porters, grooms, nurses, and 
dudes. 

In the latter case there is no subject for a picture — no soul, 
no dramatic feeling. They are marionettes, except in a few 
exceptional cases. But what poetry there is in the outcast on 
the other bench. There the man is real; he is like a char- 
acter of Shakspeare's. 

And now I am wildly uneasy for fear I shall be unable to 
grasp the treasure I have discovered! Suppose I should not 
be able to do it; suppose the weather should prevent; sup- 
pose — 



814 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

Listen! If I have no talent, heaven is mocking me, for it 
inflicts upon me all the tortures of artists of genius. Alas! 

Wednesday, July 23d. — My picture is outlined and the mod- 
els are found. I have been running about since 5 o'clock in 
the morning at La Villette and at the Batignolles; Rosalie 
accosted the people I pointed out to her. 

Ah! you can well believe, it was neither easy nor pleasant. 

Friday, August 1st. — When I use tender words do not take 
them too literally. 

Of the two egos which struggle with one another, one says 
to the other: " Well, feel something, then, if you choose! ' 
And the other who tries to be tender is always dominated by 
the first, by the ego spectator who is there looking on, and 
absorbs the other. 

And will it always be like that? 

How about love? 

Well, you know, it seems to me that love is impossible 
when one contemplates human nature through a microscope. 
Those who do not are very happy, for they see only what 
they must. 

Do you want me to tell you the truth? Well, then, I am 
neither a painter, nor a sculptor, nor a musician, nor a 
woman, nor a girl, nor a friend. All things, with me, are 
reduced to subjects for observation, reflection, and analysis. 

A look, a figure, a sound, a joy, a sorrow — everything is 
immediately weighed, examined, verified, classified, noted; 
and when I have spoken or written the results, I am satisfied. 

Saturday, August 2d. — Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, 
Friday, and Saturday — five days. I have finished my picture. 
Claire and I commenced the same day the same subject, 
upon a canvas 3^ feet wide by about 3 feet high — a large 
picture, you see. The subject is taken from the poem 
of " The Beaver," by Hugo — a farm in the background 
and on the edge of the water is seated a young girl who is 
speaking to a boy across the river. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 815 

Is what I have done very good? It is not possible, for 
the sentiment of the picture is somewhat common-place, and 
then I hurried it. It is so queer; someone says: "That 
corner there is very pretty/' Then another: "That is worth 
nothing." And still another: "It is very good — a very pretty 
picture!" Claire has not finished her picture yet. 

I would like to tell you what I wonder at most in the world. 

I wonder at people who dare to make observations. 

I wonder at people who see that I am working and who 
joggle my elbow for fun, without really meaning any harm. 

When I see Angelique sewing, I feel a sort of respect for 
her; the idea would never come to me to amuse myself in 
that way. 

How should I dare — in short, it is incomprehensible. 

But, great heavens, there are some things which shock me! 
Almost all true artists, all those who work, are like me. 

I also wonder at people who eat great pieces of mutton, 
composed of fat and blood. 

I wonder at those fortunate people who enjoy eating rasp- 
berries without thinking of the little worms that are almost 
invariably to be found inside of them. I turn them inside 
out, so that the trouble I have to take, spoils all my pleasure. 

I also wonder at those who can eat all sorts of hashed and 
messed-up dishes, without knowing what they are made of. 

I wonder at, or rather I envy simple, healthy, and ordinary 
natures. 

Thursday \ August 7 th. — Friday, August St/i. — Saturday, 
August <)th. — The ladies of my family took a little ice-box to 
the Rue Legendre. He wanted to have one that could be 
placed near the bed. 

I hope he does not think that we are attentive to him in the 
hopes of wringing a picture out of him. 

My picture is sketched in colors, but I do not feel much 
confidence in it. 

I am obliged to lie down and rest very often, and every 



816 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. % \ 

time I rise, my head is dizzy, and for a few seconds I can see 
nothing. It became so bad, finally, that I left my work about 
5 o'clock, and went and rambled about in the deserted paths 
of the Bois. 

Monday, August nth. — I went out at 5 o'clock in the morn- 
ing to sketch, but even at that early hour there were so many 
people about that I was obliged to return home, furious. 
There was a crowd about the cab, although the windows were 
drawn up. 

In the afternoon I went again into the streets, with no better 
success. Then I went to the Bois. 

Tuesday, August 12th. — In short, my friends, everything 
points to the fact that I am ill. I drag myself about and 
I struggle against the feeling; but this morning I thought I 
should be obliged to give up, that is, go to bed and do noth- 
ing more. Then, suddenly, a little strength returned to me 
and I went out once more to seek details for my picture. My 
weakness and my preoccupation separate me from the real 
world; never have I understood things with such clearness — 
a clearness far beyond that with which I am usually blessed. 

Everything appears to me in detail and with a transparency 
which is saddening.. 

I, a foreigner, young and ignorant, criticise the poorly- 
turned phrases of the greatest writers and the stupid ebulli- 
tions of the most celebrated poets. As for the newspapers, I 
can not read three lines without becoming disgusted. Not 
only because the language is vulgar, but because of the ideas 
advanced; there is nothing true in them; every word is writ- 
ten through expediency or is paid for. 

There is no truth, no sincerity anywhere. 

Just think of honorable men, in obedience to party spirit, 
uttering lies or stupidities which they can not really believe! 
It is shocking! 

We returned to dinner after a call on Bastien, who is still 
in bed, but with a calm face and clear eyes. He has gray 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 817 

eyes, whose wonderful beauty naturally escapes the multitude. 
Do you understand me? Eyes which saw first in imagination 
"Joan of Arc." 

We spoke of that picture, by the way, and he complained 
of not being sufficiently appreciated. I told him that he was 
appreciated by all those who are not brutes, and that " Joan 
of Arc " is a work which people admired more than they 
dared to say to his face. 

Saturday, August \6th. — This is the first day I have accom- 
plished anything in the cab, and I came home with such a 
pain in my back that I was obliged to have it bathed. 

But how well I feel now! The architect put my canvas in 
place this morning. His brother is better and he has been to 
the Bois. They carried him up and down stairs in an easy- 
chair. Felix told me this when he came for some milk at 4 
o'clock this afternoon. 

For the last week he has been drinking goat's milk, the 
milk of our goat; you can imagine the delight of my people. 
But that is not all; he deigns to be so friendly that he sends 
for milk when he wants it. It is charming. 

We shall lose him soon, however, as he is getting better. 
Yes, the pleasant times are drawing to a close. We can not 
visit a man who is well enough to go out. 

But I must not exaggerate. He has been to the Bois, but 
he was carried in an arm-chair and he went back to bed 
immediately after it. 

That scarcely means that he is well enough to go out. 

Tuesday, August 19th. — I was so worn out that I had scarcely 
strength enough to put on a linen gown without corsets and 
go to see Bastien. His mother received us with reproaches. 
Three days! Three days .without coming! Why it is horri- 
ble! And when we entered the chamber, Emile exclaimed: 
"What, is it all over, then? What, no more friendship?" 
Then he himself said: "Are you going to desert me? That is 
pot kind." 



818 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

My *'■ lity tempts me to repeat here all the friendly 
reproaches he addressed to us, and the assurances that never, 
never could we come too often. 

Thursday, August 21st. — I have been idling all day, and 
worked only from 5 to 7 in the morning, as I drove about in a 
carriage. 

I have had a photograph taken of the spot I am painting, 
so that I may have the lines of the sidewalk correct. 

This was done at 7 this morning. The architect arrived at 
6, and afterward we drove home — I, Rosalie, the architect, 
Coco, and the photograph. 

It was not that the presence of his brother was useful to 
me, but it made it pleasanter; I like very much to have a 
little staff of honor about me. 

Friday, August 22d. — All is over! He is doomed. 

Baude, who passed the evening here with the architect, 
told mamma about it. 

Baude is his great friend; he is the one to whom he wrote 
a long letter from Algeria; the one which I read. 

All is over, then! 

Can it be possible? 

I can not yet realize the effect which this abominable piece 
of news will have upon me. . 

It is a new sensation: to see a man condemned to death. 

Tuesday, August 26th. — All the confused thoughts which 
have filled my brain are now grouped and settled about this 
one black point. 

It is a new experience, a case I never met with before; a 
man — a man, a great artist, and — well, you know what. 

Sentenced to death! 

Ah! how terrible it is! 

And I must think every day that he is going to die! It is 
horrible! 

I have gathered together all my strength and, with head 
erect, I await the blow. 






JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 819 

Has it not been thus with me all my life? 

When a blow is impending, I await it with fortitude; but 
when all is over, I reason, I rebel, and I utter complaints. 

I can not put two words together coherently. 

But do not think I am overwhelmed with grief; I am 
simply absorbed by the thought of what is going to become 
of me. 

Saturday, August ?>otk. — The matter is very serious. I can 
do nothing, and I have done nothing since the S&vres picture 
was finished — nothing except two miserable panels. 

I sleep for whole hours in broad daylight. I have made, 
indeed, my little study in a cab; but that amounts to nothing. 

The canvas is there; everything is ready, and I alone am 
lacking. 

If I were to say all! The terrible fears — 

It is almost September and the winter is close at hand. 

The slightest cold might confine me to my bed for two 
months, and then my convalescence would make me waste still 
more time. 

And my picture? I would have sacrificed everything, 
and — 

Ah! this is the moment to believe in God and to pray to Him. 

Yes, it is the fear of falling ill that overwhelms me; in my 
present condition, if I should take cold, an illness of six weeks 
would carry me off. 

And yet that is the way I am certain to go. 

I shall work at my picture in any case, however cold it may 
be; and if I do not catch cold while working, I shall while 
walking. And yet there are people who do not paint pictures 
and who die all the same. 

This, then, is the end of all my troubles! So many aspira- 
tions, so many desires, so many plans, so many— to die at 
twenty-four, on the threshold of everything! 

I had foreseen it all. Since God could not, without par- 
tiality, grant me everything that was necessary to my life, 



820 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

He will give me death. There are so many years, so many? 
I have had so few, and the end is nothingness! 

Wednesday, September $d. — I am doing the drawing for 
Figaro, but stopping to rest every now and then, for an hour 
at a time. I have a terrible fever. My strength is gone. I 
have never been so ill; but I dp not say so. I continue to go 
out and to work. What is the use of saying anything about it? 
I am ill, and that is enough. Will talking about it do any 
good? But should I go out? 

Mine is a disease that permits my doing so at the times when 
I feel comparatively well. 

Thursday, September nth. — I commenced Thursday the study 
of a nude child. It may serve as a subject for a picture, if it 
is good. 

The architect came yesterday; his brother wanted to know 
why we had neglected him for so long a time. We therefore 
went to the Bois late this afternoon; he was taking his usual 
airing, and you can judge of the surprise of all at finding us 
there. He held out both his hands to me, and when we were 
going home he entered our carriage, while my aunt returned 
with his mother. It would be well to go to the Bois whenever 
we know that he is there. 

Saturday, September i$th. — We are friends, he likes us; he 
respects me, he likes me, he is interested in me. He said 
yesterday that I was wrong to worry myself; that I ought to 
esteem myself very fortunate. No woman, he said, has 
had the success that I have had, after working only a few 
years. 

" You are celebrated; everybody knows who Mademoiselle 
Bashkirtseff is. You have achieved genuine success. But 
you would like to have two Salons a year, so that you could 
reach the pinnacle of greatness more quickly. That is natural, 
however, when one is ambitious. I have passed through the 
same thing myself." 

And to-day he said; 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 821 

" People see me driving with you; it is fortunate that I am 
ill, or else they would accuse me of painting your picture. " 

" Oh, they have done that already," said the architect. 

" Not in the papers?" 

"Oh, no!" 

Wednesday, September ip/t. — There are few days when I am 
not tormented by the recollection of my father. I ought to 
have gone and taken care of him until the end. He did not 
complain, for he was like me, but he must have cruelly felt my 
absence. Why did I not go? 

Since the return of Bastien-Lepage, and since we have been 
going so often to see him, and have shown him so many little 
attentions, I have felt most keenly how wrong was my con- 
duct toward my father. 

In mamma's case it was different; they had been separated 
so long and had only come together again within the last five 
years; but I, his daughter? 

Then God will punish me. But, to go to the root of things, 
after all, we owe our parents nothing; if they have not 
taken care of us and done everything for us from the time we 
entered the world. 

That does not prevent, however, — but I have no time to 
analyze this question. Bastien-Lepage makes me feel remorse. 
This is a punishment from God. But if I do not believe in 
God? I don't know whether I do or not; but, in any case, I 
have a conscience, and my conscience reproaches me for what 
I have done. 

And then one can not say with conviction: "I do not 
believe in God." It all depends on what we understand by 
the word God. If the God we love and long for existed, the 
world would be very different to what it is. 

There is no God Who listens to my evening prayer; and yet, 
in spite of my reason, I pray to Him every evening. 

Si le del est desert, nous rioffensons personne; 

Si quelqu *un nous entend, qiiil nous prenne en pitie. 



822 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

And yet how is it possible to believe? 

Bastien-Lepage continues very ill; we found him in the Bois, 
his face all twisted up with pain. All the Charcots were there. 
It is the intention to bring some day Doctor Charcot himself, 
so that he can see him, as if by chance. When they went 
away, Bastien said that it was abominable of us to neglect 
him as we have done for two whole days. 

Thursday, September i8tk. — I have seen Julian! I have 
missed him very much, but it has been so long since we have 
seen each other that we had very little to say. He thought I 
looked successful and contented. There is nothing, after all, 
but art; nothing else deserves a single thought. 

All his family are with Bastien-Lepage — his mother and his 
sisters — and they will remain with him until the end. They 
seem like kind-hearted women, but they are very talkative. 

That tyrant of a Bastien-Lepage insists on my taking care 
of myself; he wants me to be cured of my cough in a month; 
he buttons up my jacket for me and worries as to whether I 
am dressed warmly enough or not. 

Once, when all the rest of the people were sitting as usual 
on the left of his bed, I went and sat down on the right; 
he at once turned his back on the others, settled himself com- 
fortably, and began to talk to me in a low voice about art. 

Yes, he certainly feels friendship for me, and a selfish 
friendship, too. When I said that I was going to begin to work 
again to-morrow, he answered: 

" Oh, not yet! You must not desert me!" 

Friday, September igt/i. — He is much worse. We do not 
know what to do, whether to leave the room or to remain, 
when he groans with pain and then looks up at us with a smile. 

To go would seem to imply that he is very ill, and to remain 
and look on as he writhes in anguish is terrible. 

I am afraid that I speak of this with little delicacy; it seems 
to me that I could find words more — I mean less — Poor 
fellow! 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 823 

Wednesday, October ist. — I am filled with sadness and dis- 
satisfaction. 

What is the use of writing? 

My aunt went to Russia, Monday. She will arrive at i 
o'clock to-morrow morning. 

Bastien-Lepage goes from bad to worse. 

And I can not work. 

My picture will never be finished. 

Just think of it all! 

He is fading away and he suffers greatly. When we see 
him, he seems a being beyond this earth; he is on a 
higher plane than us; there are days when I feel as if it were 
the same with me. I see people, I speak to them and they 
answer; but I am no longer a part of this world; I feel a 
calm indifference to everybody; there is no sorrow attached to 
it, but it is something like the dreamy state which opium pro- 
duces. In short, he is dying. I go to see him only through the 
force of habit; he is the shadow of himself, and I, also, am 
half a shadow. 

What is the use of anything? 

He takes little notice of my presence, and I can do him no 
good. I have not the power to bring the light into his eyes. 
He is pleased to see me, and that is all. Yes, he is dying, and 
I am indifferent. I do not realize it, I only know something 
is gradually fading before my eyes. 

All is over at last. 

All is over. 

They will bury me in 1885. >/ <^> 

Thursday, October gt/z. — I can do nothing. I have a fever all 
the time. My doctors are two fools. I have called in Potain 
and placed myself in his hands. He cured me once, and he is 
kind, attentive, and honest. It seems that my thinness and the 
other things are not the result of the trouble with my lungs. 
They are due to another cause, of which I have not spoken, 
hoping that it would pass away by itself^ and I have troubled 



824 JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 

myself only about my Jungs, which are no worse than they 
were before. 

There is no need to bother you with my ailments, however. 
But it is an undeniable fact that I can do nothing! 

Nothing! 

Yesterday I began to dress to go to the Bois, and twice I 
was so weak that I was ready to give it up. 

But I went, all the same. 

Madame Bastien-Lepage has been at Damvillers since Mon- 
day to look after the vintages, and although there are other 
ladies with him he is glad to see us. 

Sunday, October 12th. — I have not been able to go out. I 
am really ill, although not in bed. 

The doctor comes every other day. Since Potain's visit, he 
has sent his assistant. 

Oh! my God, my God! And my picture, my picture, my 
picture! 

Julian has been to see me; so they must have told him that 
I am ill. 

Alas! how can I hide it? And how can I go to see Bastien- 
Lepage? 

Thursday, October 16th. — I have a terrible fever, which 
wears me out. I pass all the day in the salon, changing from 
the sofa to an arm-chair, and back again to the sofa. 

Dina reads novels to me. Potain himself came yesterday, 
and he will come again to-morrow. He is in no need of 
money, and if he comes often it must be that he takes a little 
interest in me. 

I can not go out at all, but that poor Bastien-Lepage does; 
he has himself carried here, and installs himself in an arm- 
chair, with his legs resting on a pile of cushions; I am quite 
near him in another arm-chair, and so we remain until 6 o'clock. 

I am dressed in a mass of lace and plush; everything is 
white, but of different shades. Bastien-Lepage's eyes dilate 
with pleasure as thay rest upon me. 



JOURNAL OF MARIE BASHKIRTSEFF. 825 

" Oh, if I could paint!" he says. 

And I? 

This year's picture will never be painted! 

Saturday, October iSt/i. — Bastien-Lepage comes almost every 
day. His mother has returned, and to-day they all three were 
here. 

Potain came yesterday; I am no better. 

Sunday, October igtn.— Tony and Julian dined with us. 

Monday, October 20th. — In spite of the magnificent weather, 
Bastien-Lepage came here instead of going to the Bois. He 
can scarcely walk now; his brother supports him under each 
arm, and almost carries him. 

Once in the arm-chair, the poor fellow is for a time utterly 
exhausted. Heaven have pity on us both! And to think that 
there are porters who enjoy robust health ! Emile is an excellent 
brother; he carries Jules on his shoulders up and down stairs 
to their apartment on the third story. Dina shows equal 
devotion to me. For the last two days my bed has been in the 
salon; but as the room is very large, and divided by screens, 
sofas, and the piano, it can not be seen. It is too much exer- 
tion for me to go up and down stairs. 



(The journal stops here. Marie Bashkirtseff died eleven 
days after, the 31st of October, 1884.) 




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PRESS NOTICES. 

"The previous works of this author are * 'Persephone," 
"T'other MissNorie," etc., all of which have met with a flat- 
tering acceptance by the reading public, and raised her to a 
high place among our authors. This work will add much to 
her reputation for ability. It is vividly interesting, full of 
incident, with the characters finely drawn, and the descrip- 
tions are excellent." — National Tribune, Washington. 

"We cannot doubt that the author is one of the best living 
orators of her sex. The book will possess a strong attrac- 
tion for women." — Chicago Herald. 

"This is a story of the life of an Actress, told in the graph- 
ic style of Miss Ryan. It is very interesting."— New Orleans 
Picayune. 

"A book of decided literary merit, besides moral tone and 
vigor."— -Public Opinion, Washington, D. C. 

"It is an exciting tragical story."— Chicago Inter-Ocean. 

"It is full of incident, and the leading characters are 
drawn with considerable strength."— Boston Times. 

"The story is well written, the action is brisk, and the 
interest aroused by the child Merze, is above the average 
novel." — New York Press. 

"The plot is a good one, the story is full of incident, the 
influences are pure and wholesome. * * * The reader's 
interest is kept thoroughly awake."— Evening Express, Los 
Angeles, Cal. 

" k Merze; the Story of an Actress,' a romance of extra- 
ordinary power, * * * is a splendid specimen of imagi- 
native and creative work."— The American, Nashville. 

"* * * ^ story of great dramatic strength and 
vigor, and distinguished at the same time by grace of style 
and cunning of plot, that are rare in writers. * * * "— 
Record Union, Sacramento, Cal. 

Send for complete catalogue. 

RAND, McNALLY & CO., Publishers, 
Chicago and New York. 



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